


Plague

by Orinoco_II



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Action, Drama, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-04-23 08:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 74,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14328390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orinoco_II/pseuds/Orinoco_II
Summary: July 2008: the hottest week of the year so far and insects from across the universe are falling through the Rift in their droves. And one species has a particularly deadly bite.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As you might guess from the numbering, there are more Codas to come, but I've hit a busy time, so I thought I'd fill the gap by tweaking and re-posting some of my stories that were originally posted on whofic.com.

Millie Jenkins didn’t usually mind working Wednesday nights. On Wednesday nights, the bar was generally quiet — just a few students, on their way to the clubs, or the odd group of locals playing pool. Tonight, however, was international football night. Wales were playing Something-stan that Millie had never heard of, and the bar was packed with rows and rows of Welshmen, staring transfixed up at the big screen that dominated the wall at the far end of the room. Wales were losing 1-0, and a wave of discontent rippled through the crowd as Millie wound amongst them collecting empties.

It was a balmy night. The heat had been stifling during the day and though it had cooled off a little now, it was still uncomfortably warm. The patio doors that led out onto the terrace were wide open, and the smokers lounged about out there, craning their necks to see the screen, seeing how far they could get their heads inside whilst they left their cigarette-holding hands outside. Millie rested the stack of pint glasses against her shoulder, slipped three empty wine glasses between the fingers of her free hand and made her way back to the bar. It was so busy that Rob, the world’s sleaziest boss, had lumbered downstairs to help out, and Millie subtly raised her eyebrows at Owain, who smirked back.

As she started to stack the glasses in the dishwasher, she felt a trickle of sweat drip down between her shoulder blades and grimaced. She was tired and hot and sticky and just wanted to go home. As the half time whistle shrilled out from the television and the noise levels doubled, she knew that her shift was far from over. She slammed the dishwasher shut and set it going, before returning to the bar to help Owain out with the half time orders. Gillian had sauntered in from her fag break and Rob was growing increasingly red faced as he struggled to remember where everything was and how to work the till.

A fly buzzed around Millie’s head and she wafted it away — that was the last thing she needed. She turned and glanced up at the fly trap on the wall above the bar. The UV light had been fizzing every few seconds earlier in the evening, but as she glanced up at it now, she realised that the trap was full to the brim with dead flies. Disgusting. And guess who would be emptying it? Owain and Gillian wouldn’t go anywhere near it without screaming like toddlers.

Millie worked on automaton as she served the football fans. Pint of Fosters, two pints of Brains, a Strongbow, three Carlsbergs, JD and Coke, orange and mango J2O (‘I’m driving’ — like she cared), a lager and lime for the missus, a round of Tequilas, two Snakebites, a pitcher of Pimms, three pints of Stella. She kept the smile on her face that didn’t quite reach her eyes and good-naturedly knocked back the attempts to flirt — she’d seen it all.

He kept looking at her, though. That guy in the blue t-shirt. He stood out because everyone else was in red. He was cute too, in a slightly geeky way. He was probably a student. And probably not Welsh, hence the blue. At least he hadn’t come in white. She caught his eye and smiled; he smiled back. Maybe, she thought — maybe. She’d been single for a while now, since she’d dumped Clingy Dave, and perhaps tonight might be the night to move on. Turning back to the man she was serving, she felt a sharp pain in her neck and slapped at it. Too late — taking her hand away, she saw it was covered in blood and squashed insect. Fantastic. Fan-bloody-tastic. This night was turning out just brilliantly.

-*-

Neil Maloney wasn’t even interested in football. He certainly wasn’t interested in Wales versus Uzbekistan. He was English: Manchester born and bred. Strictly speaking, he was a City fan, but he’d always been more of a cricketer. To him Old Trafford meant Lancashire CCC not Ferguson and Rooney. He’d come because Turtle and Roddy were Welsh, and because Faizal would do anything to avoid work, and because he didn’t like being left out.

He’d been standing in the bar for nearly ten minutes now and half time was almost over. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Roddy glaring at him irritably. He knew Roddy would have barged his way to front of the queue by now but Neil never had been much good at that. He looked over the bar and caught the eye of the cute barmaid. She smiled at him and he smiled back. Now that was something worth watching during the rest of the match.

The second half was just kicking off again when Neil finally made it to the bar. He beamed at the barmaid as he leaned up against the bar which was virtually deserted now, most of the punters having made it back to their seats. He risked another look at his friends and saw that they had all gone back to staring intently at the big screen. There would be time for them get on his case later; right now he had bigger fish to fry.

“What can I get you, love?” she asked.

Love? Not a great start. That was what his grandma called him. “Two pints of Stella and two pints of London Pride please.” Did he sound too much like a polite schoolboy?

“Coming right up.”

As she turned to fetch the glasses, Neil felt something tickle against his forearm. He slapped it and looked down. Gotcha, you bastard. He smiled and flicked the squashed gnat away. Right: got to make conversation. Think like Roddy. He always knows what to say. Don’t think like Faizal — he hasn’t pulled since Christmas.

“Been working here long?” he asked as the barmaid started to pour his drinks.

“About six months.”

“Like it?” he blurted. Well, at least she was answering his questions and not looking at him like he was some sort of imbecile. He got that look a lot. Mostly from Eisla Lloyd. Unrequited love was a bitch. 

She shrugged. “It’s alright.” She put two pints of Stella on the bar in front of him and started to pour the ale. Neil pulled one towards him, foam spilling out and sliding down the glass onto the bar mat, and took a sip.

Time to take the plunge. “What time do you finish tonight?”

“Midnight,” she told him, grinning. “Why?”

Neil returned her grin with interest. “Fancy getting a kebab?”

-*-

Gwen Cooper grimaced as she opened the door at the bottom of her building and was hit by a blast of hot air as though she had just opened an oven. The heat was trapped in the narrow hallways, and a patch of sweat formed in the small of her back as she started to climb the stairs to her front door. She and Jack had spent a large proportion of the day chasing a red, shaggy, unipedal Larenim Wolf up and down Rover Way in Tremorfa. This had involved a good deal of running and sweating under a ridiculously hot sun, and when they had eventually captured it and brought it back to the Hub, Ianto had been quick to point out that they had just been given the run around by a one-legged tickle-me Elmo. She and Jack had been less amused.

Now all she wanted was a cold shower and a glass of chilled white wine. She didn’t even care if it was that £3.99-a-bottle stuff that Rhys insisted on buying in the Spar; she just wanted to cool down. There was no way in hell Rhys was doing any snuggling tonight. She heard the muffled roar of a television crowd through a neighbour’s front door and remembered that it was the match tonight. She’d seen the board advertising Sky Sports outside the pub on the corner. Definitely no snuggling on the cards then.

“Only me,” Gwen called out cheerfully as she let herself into the flat. There was no reply from the living room. She poked her head around the doorway and found Rhys perched on the edge of the sofa, staring intently at the television screen, practically crushing the can of lager in his right hand. “Good day?” she asked.

“Hmm.” Rhys kept his eyes on the screen.

“Lovely to see you too.” Gwen rolled her eyes and made her way into the small kitchen area of the flat. She sighed as she saw that Rhys had left the windows wide open and the curtains drawn back. Several moths were flitting about the light bulb in the kitchen and Gwen shuddered, backing away from them. If there was one thing Gwen hated, it was moths. “You’ve left the bloody curtains open again,” she moaned. “You know I hate moths.”

“What’s that love?” Rhys asked vaguely.

“Moths Rhys,” Gwen snapped, walking round so that she was standing between him and the television. He blinked, gaped in disbelief and finally looked up at her.

“Huh?”

“Get rid of them,” she instructed.

“What?”

“The moths.” She pointed to the kitchen light and Rhys slowly swivelled his head round to look.

“Oh.” He peered round her as he stood and put his beer down on the coffee table, next to a row of three empty cans. He stumbled against the arm of the sofa as he tried to keep his eyes on the screen and walk in the opposite direction at the same time. It was still 1-0 to Wales, but they had all the possession. Rhys grabbed the mop from beside the fridge and began to flap at the moths with it.

“You’ll have let all the mozzies in as well,” Gwen complained, watching from a respectful distance.

“I don’t know why you’re bothered,” Rhys grumbled. “They only ever go for me anyway.”

“More flesh,” Gwen retorted.

“Ha-ha.” Rhys batted at the moths, trying to shepherd them towards the open window. “Come on.” One of the moths dropped down from the light fitting and battered its wings against his face. “Ugh.” Rhys flapped at it, and then frowned as it hovered in front of his face. “Hang on — that’s not a normal moth.” He stared at it in confusion. “Get me a jar.”

“A jar?” Gwen queried, staring up at him suspiciously.

“Yeah.”

Gwen fished out an empty curry sauce jar from the recycling box and handed it to him. Standing on tiptoes, he reached up with the jar, shepherded the moth into it and clamped his hand over the top. He held it up and stared in amazement through the glass. The moth had a wingspan of perhaps four inches, and sitting in the narrow jar it furled and unfurled them, battering them in frustration against the walls of its glass prison. Eventually it tired of this, realising that it was well and truly trapped, and settled uncomfortably on the bottom of the jar. Its six legs were thick and coated in a long, silky hair. Its eyes were big and round, blinking yellow at its captor, with a level of apparent sentience that terrified Rhys.

“What the hell is that?” he breathed, horrified. The moth tapped its antennae against the glass irritably. Rhys moved to show the creature to Gwen and she backed up against the fridge freezer in alarm.

“Get it away from me,” she yelped.

Despite the situation, Rhys had to laugh. “Weevils, big alien space monsters — you’re fine. Put you up against a moth and you go to pieces.” He chuckled, looking in at his new find. “It’s harmless love.”

Gwen glared at him. “It could be poisonous.” She turned and rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers, producing a roll of foil. She ripped off a square and turned back to face her husband. “When I say go, move your hand.”

Rhys held the jar out towards her and Gwen gritted her teeth, stretched out the foil and took a deep breath. “Go!”

Rhys whipped his hand away and Gwen quickly smothered the top of the jar with the foil. The moth took the opportunity to flit upwards, but Gwen held on tight and it bumped against the shiny surface several times before sinking back down.

“Get some sellotape,” Gwen instructed.

“Sellotape?” Rhys scratched his head and looked around with far less urgency than Gwen would have liked. “Don’t think we’ve got any? Where is it?”

“Well get one of those elastic bands then,” Gwen suggested. “The ones you’re always moaning about the postman leaving on the stairs.”

Rhys ambled out into the hallway and triumphantly produced the fat ball of red elastic bands that he had been collecting over the last year. The Royal Mail had received many complaints from him about these elastic bands. He snapped one off and sealed the foil round the jar. For good measure he grabbed a knife out of the draining rack and punched a hole in the foil.

“What are you doing?”

“Breathing hole,” Rhys explained with a shrug as he put the knife down. He squatted down on his haunches and brought his eyes level with the jar that Gwen had set down on the kitchen surface.

“Oh, because it’s such an airtight lid,” she grumbled. Satisfied that the moth was now safely contained she squatted down on the other side of the surface. Gwen and Rhys stared curiously into the jar at the moth, which swung its head from side to side to look between them angrily.

“I don’t think it’s from Earth,” Gwen said eventually to the distorted face of her husband through the glass.

“No,” Rhys agreed. Then he pointed over his shoulder at the light. “Shall I get the rest?”

“What?!” Gwen leapt backwards in fright. Just at that moment there was an almighty roar from the living room.

“No!” Rhys yelled, straightening up and pushing past Gwen to see the television. “No,” he repeated, louder this time. Gwen heard him thump the coffee table, the empty cans toppling over. “Show the replay,” he yelled. “Show the bloody replay!”

-*-

Ianto Jones sat cross-legged on the floor of the archives, his sleeves rolled up and his waistcoat undone, surrounded by piles of paperwork. It was organised chaos. He took another sip of Chardonnay and set the glass to one side. It had just gone nine but he didn’t feel at all tired; Ianto found filing strangely therapeutic. The Radio Cymru commentary on the match babbled away softly from a portable radio on the shelf behind his head. His laptop was open on the floor a few paces away, recording all the 999 calls in the Cardiff district. The lines had been fairly quiet so far tonight, but he suspected calls would increase once the match finished.

He hadn’t seen Jack or Gwen since the three of them had finished their pizza an hour ago, but he didn’t mind. He liked having the Hub to himself from time to time. It gave him the opportunity to plough on with the archives. He’d made it his mission when he first came to Torchwood Three to sort out the shelves upon shelves of sloppily arranged files and boxes filling several large rooms in the underground base. After two years he was up to U, shelf stack four.

There were a surprisingly large number of objects and reports filed under U. Mostly as ‘UFO’, ‘Unknown’ or ‘Unidentifiable’. To Ianto’s mind that was just lazy, given the line of business they were in. It had taken him months to sort out all the reports filed under A for ‘Alien’. So he was painstakingly going through every item and sorting it into piles for further categorization. He had a very small pile for items correctly labelled and filed, much larger piles for re-classification and re-writing, a pile yet to be identified and a pile that had been filed under the wrong letter.

He flipped open a file from 1956, labelled ‘Udo Pretorius’, and smiled as he recognised Jack’s scrawl in the margins of the typed report. He liked it when he came across things that Jack had written from years ago. It somehow made him feel more connected with Jack’s past. He skimmed through the report, on a humanoid alien named Udo Pretorius, identified as a Harbarus from the planet Bosco, and found it to be thorough enough. He debated whether it should be filed under P for ‘Pretorius, Udo’, or possibly H for ‘Harbarus’. Eventually he set it on another pile — for photocopying and filing in more than one location. He peeled off an orange sticker from the sheets in front of him and stuck it on the front of the file.

He picked up the next file, labelled ‘Utalis’, and opened it. It was dated August 19th 1993. My tenth birthday, Ianto noted, for some reason pleased at the coincidence. There were just a few typed pages, detailing Operatives Carrick and Miles’ discovery of a Utalis, an invertebrate from Otron 2.4, found floating in the sea near Penarth. The alien was found dead and there was a report on its autopsy. Everything seemed to be in good order. Ianto stuck a green sticker on the file and put it on the correct pile. He drew his laptop nearer and entered the details into his database. It was one of his proudest achievements — a fully searchable database of the Torchwood archives. When it was finished it would be a powerful research tool. As he finished typing the entry and hit save, a 999 call came through.

“You’re through to the South Wales Police Service — how can I help?”

“They’re in my field!” A distressed male voice, heavy Welsh accent, probably in his sixties Ianto guessed, came over the airwaves.

“Who’s in your field, sir?” The man on the end of the phone was keeping calm.

“Not who — what!” the caller continued. “Bloody great things.” Ianto’s ears pricked up.

“Can you be a little more specific, sir?”

“They look like dragonflies,” the man explained. “But they’re huge!”

Giant dragonflies? Definitely not right, Ianto decided. He tapped away at the keyboard and grabbed his phone.

“Can I take your name, sir?” Ianto asked.

“Llewellyn, Martin Llewellyn,” he said, puzzled by the sudden change of voice, but panicked enough not to question it.

“And can you tell me your location, Mr Llewellyn?”

“Tregarth Farm, Llamau,” 

“Can I take a postcode?”

“CF37 7ST,” the farmer replied.

“We’ll have a squad car over there right away, Mr Llewellyn,” Ianto told him. “Try to stay calm and keep an eye on them.”

“Aye, I will,” the man assured him and Ianto hung up.

He tapped away again at his keyboard.

“Hello? Sir?” The man on the other end of the line was wondering what the hell just happened and why he had just been treated to a blast of Swan Lake. Ianto really had to change the Torchwood on-hold music.

“Hello there,” Ianto said cheerfully. “I’m sorry about that. My father suffers from dementia. He has these funny turns. I’m so sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Oh.” The man sounded slightly bemused. “Well, if you’re sure.”

“Yes, sorry. I’ll let you get on. Thank you.”

Ianto hung up and blew out his cheeks. He called up a programme on his laptop and typed in the farm’s postcode. A map of the area was displayed and above the farm flashed a red dot. Just as he had suspected — Rift activity. The commentator’s voice on the radio behind him rose to a hysterical pitch as Bellamy slotted home Wales’ equaliser. Ianto looked at the flashing red dot again. He thought it might be time to call Jack.

-*-

Captain Jack Harkness stood on the roof of the Holland House Hotel and gazed out at the nightscape of his city. It was his city now, he thought. Cardiff was so inextricably linked with his life that he had no qualms about claiming ownership of it. It was really too warm to be wearing his coat, but he wore it anyway. It was part of his armour; the personality he cloaked himself in. The air was moving a little at this height but in the streets below it was oppressive. It was a dry heat, though, and the sky was clear.

Jack spent even more time standing on rooftops these days. He flared his nostrils and breathed in deeply. Pale blue eyes scanned back and forth, jaw set, no trace of his vast array of grins and smiles, thoughts jumbling and rolling through his mind, falling into place, sorting themselves into some sort of order. Jack could almost feel them realigning inside his head. The size of his human brain was really too small to hold the number of memories that he had collected and he needed these times to assimilate and to remember, to contemplate and to reassess.

He drew in another lungful of air and let out a long sigh. If he took just one step forward, he would plummet hundreds of metres to his death, splattering onto the narrow street below. Only it wouldn’t really be his death. A few moments later, he would burst back out of the darkness, a slight ache in his back and a tingling in his synapses. He shuffled his right boot forward and paused, foot half hanging off the end of the ledge he was standing on. He considered it. He liked the feeling when he was falling. The thrill: wondering if this time it really would be the end.

His mobile started to ring and Jack pulled his foot back with another sigh. He slid a hand into his pocket and took out his phone. The screen showed it was Ianto calling. Jack smiled, suddenly glad he hadn’t jumped, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Ianto — what can I do for you?”

-*-

Millie barged her way into the staff toilets, slamming the door behind her and shoving the bolt home. She stumbled dizzily and sank down onto the closed toilet seat in relief, shutting her eyes to try and stop the world spinning. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was that was wrong, but she’d had a long acquaintance with her body and she knew something wasn’t quite right. It was probably the heat, she decided, opening her eyes to a world that was thankfully less distorted.

She got shakily to feet and leant heavily on the edge of the small basin as she turned on the cold tap and splashed water onto her face, grateful for the relief it gave. Her hand strayed to scratch the bite on her neck and she straightened up to examine it in the mirror, stretching her neck and tilting her head to one side to get the light in the cramped toilet at the right angle. She grimaced as she saw the angry red mark, swollen up to the size of a large pea. She’d never reacted this way to an insect bite before. She hoped she wasn’t about to have one of those anaphylactic shocks.

The bite was pricking uncomfortably and she raked her fingernails over it again, leaving a trail of blood down her neck. Bloody typical, just when she was about to pull. She yanked a paper towel out of the dispenser, soaked it under the tap and dabbed at her neck, holding it against the bite until the blood stopped flowing. She chucked the sodden towel into the bin and looked back up, realising how dry her skin was looking. She pushed her face closer to the mirror to examine it in more detail, repulsed by the way her skin was flaking off across her forehead and down her nose. It hadn’t looked like that before she came out to work, she was certain of it. Maybe Owain would have some moisturiser. The Gods really were against her this evening.

Millie ran her fingers through her hair and scraped it back into a ponytail. She splashed a little more water on her face, dried it carefully with another paper towel, took a deep breath and left the toilet. She paused at the bottom of the stairs and peered through the small glass window in the door out at the bar. Owain was loading up the dishwasher, Gillian was serving a customer and Rob was nowhere to be seen. The guy in the blue t-shirt was smiling inanely at nothing in particular, already halfway through his next pint and looking like he might be about to slide off his barstool at any moment. Millie gave a small shrug. Perhaps the flaking skin and the red-raw bite wouldn’t be such a problem after all. She pushed open the door and made her way back into the bar.


	2. Chapter 2

It was strange how quickly the Hub seemed to come alive again when Jack was around. Ianto had never mentioned this to Jack, but he had often thought it. Perhaps it was because Jack was the only person with a personality big enough to fill the vast space. Or perhaps it was because the Hub was Jack’s home and because Jack was synonymous with Torchwood. Either way, the minute that Jack arrived back, summoned by Ianto’s phone call, the peace and tranquillity of Ianto’s evening with the archives was shattered; Jack’s voice boomed from wall to wall and his footsteps thundered around the corridors.

“They sound like Skyrones to me,” he shouted back at Ianto, his voice slightly muffled because his head was buried in a store cupboard. Ianto winced as he heard yet another unknown item clatter down off a shelf. “They’re beautiful,” Jack continued, worming his way deeper into the cupboard, accompanied by more crashes and clunks. “Had one as a pet when I was a kid. Ah-ha!” He laid hold of the object of his search and backed out of the cupboard, his emergence heralded by yet another succession of thumps.

“Knew we had these in there somewhere.” Jack handed two butterfly nets to Ianto. They looked as though they had been made around the turn of the previous century. They probably had been, Ianto reflected wryly. He didn’t have time to question the dubious history of the nets before Jack had bounded off in the opposite direction.

“Skyrones are actually related to our dragonflies,” he called back over his shoulder. Ianto had no choice but to follow him down the stairs towards the vaults. “Sort of, distant cousins really.” Jack stopped abruptly and flung open another cupboard. “This should do the job.” He reached in and dragged out a large metal cage. “Can you get the other end?”

Ianto balanced the butterfly nets on top of the cage and picked it up, cautiously navigating his way backwards up the narrow staircase. “Are they dangerous?” he asked.

“Not to humans.” Jack considered that. “Well, I suppose they might give you a nip, if they were confused, but nothing worse.”

“Mr Llewellyn didn’t seem sure how many there were,” Ianto recalled, pushing the door at the top of the stairs open with his shoulder.

“They usually hang out in family groups,” Jack explained as they walked out into the workstation area. “Not more than eight normally.” He dropped his end of the cage without warning and Ianto gave a grunt as he suddenly took all the weight. Jack wandered off and Ianto carefully lowered the cage to the ground, dusting off his hands and glaring angrily at Jack’s disappearing back.

Jack bounded up two flights of steps and disappeared through a door into yet another store cupboard. He reappeared shortly with an armful of spray canisters. When he got closer, Ianto saw that he was carrying several cans of insect repellent and a couple bug bombs.

Ianto looked at him quizzically. “Where did you get those?”

“Dunno.” Jack shrugged. “A shop?”

Ianto took one of the cans and inspected it closely. “Is it alien?”

“Nope. Just the regular stuff.” Jack grinned at him. “They’re insects, like ours. We just need a little bit more.” He put the bug sprays down on top of the cage, grabbing his coat off the stand and shrugging it. “I hope you're feeling fit." He grinned again. "We're gonna be doing a lot of running.”

-*-

There were now six jars containing oversized moths lined up on Gwen and Rhys’ kitchen surface. That was six too many in Gwen’s opinion. They were running out of jars and there were still at least three more to catch. Gwen disappeared into the living room and rummaged in her handbag. The football match was still in full swing and she could see Rhys bobbing his head back and forth to keep one eye on the screen. Gwen had no time for football. She’d scream and shout at the rugby but football left her cold. Plus, she liked her men big and chunky, not flimsy like footballers, who looked like the slightest breeze would knock them down.

Gwen produced a scanner from her bag and went back into the kitchen. She switched it on and wafted it in the general direction of the light bulb. Rhys glanced at her.

“What’s that?”

“Rift matter scanner,” she replied absently as she focused on the information on the screen.

“Bringing the office home,” Rhys grumbled as he shepherded another moth into a jar.

“Keeping you safe,” Gwen countered.

She ran the scanner over the ceiling, following the trail of Rift activity to the window. She leant forward and traced the Rift matter out over the sill and onto the wall outside. Hauling herself up and squatting with a knee either side of the sink, she leaned out as far as possible, reaching the scanner as far down the wall as she could. The air was alive with Rift matter, crackling like static electricity, but a solid trail focused firmly on the wall of the building. Gwen retracted her arm and clambered down from the draining board.

“I’m going outside,” she told Rhys. “Make sure you get all those moths.”

“Aye, aye,” Rhys shot back cheekily.

Gwen exited the flat and trotted down the stifling stairway. That cold shower and bottle of wine was slipping further and further away. She pushed out onto the pavement, only marginally cooler than inside, and went into the side street which ran under the windows of their flat. She traced the Rift scanner over the wall, reaching as high above her head as physically possible. The trail came down the wall, over the neighbour’s wheelie bin, across the pavement and into a drain beside the curb. Which was odd, because moths didn’t usually come from drains. Even alien moths. Gwen had learnt during her time at Torchwood that there were certain generalisations that it was safe to make regarding species which resembled those found on Earth.

She took a step back off the pavement and wafted the scanner in the air. It was picking up low levels of background Rift activity - normal for Cardiff. The levels fluctuated depending on how recently the Rift had been active in that location, but there was a permanent base level throughout the city, the concentration varying depending on proximity to the Rift itself. Now and again, as Gwen waved the scanner back and forth, the levels went up and down. She was fairly certain the moths had arrived by air. Which begged the question of what had come out of the drain. And had it come from her flat and gone into the drain, or the other way round? She tried not to think about the answer to that question.

“I think I’ve got them all!” Rhys’ shout distracted her from her musings. She looked up and saw his head poking out of the kitchen window. “Any luck with the Rift scanning thingy?”

“Keep your bloody voice down,” Gwen hissed up at him. “I’m coming back up.”

“Sorry!”

Rhys withdrew his head and Gwen hit save on the scanner to capture the data. She’d show it to Jack and Ianto later and maybe they would be able to instigate an investigation of the drain. She headed back up the stairs to the flat. Rhys had returned to the sofa and the football. She switched the scanner back on and began to follow the trail into the flat, over the sink, down the kitchen cupboard, across the lino and into the hallway. She really hoped whatever it was had been on its way out and not on its way in.

“Oh my God - what the hell is that?”

Gwen shook her head as Rhys shouted at the television. It didn’t make any difference whether Rhys could be heard or not, he just liked to rant. Rhys the Rant. The reason why she loved him. She smiled as she traced the trail into the bathroom.

“Gwen — get in here.”

Gwen scowled. Rhys probably wanted her to agree with his opinion on a refereeing decision but now really wasn’t the time. In fact, she probably ought to ring Jack soon.

“In a minute,” she called back. “I’m busy.”

“No really.” Rhys’ voice faltered. “I think you ought to get in here.”

At the uncertainty in Rhys’ voice, Gwen leapt to her feet and shot back into the living room. Rhys was standing behind the sofa, gripping the back of it and staring in horror at the television. Gwen followed his gaze and swallowed nervously when she saw what could only be described as an enormous bluebottle fly hovering over the television. She fumbled in her handbag and grabbed her gun.

“Ok,” she said calmly. “Don’t panic.” She trained her gun on the fly. “Get behind me.”

“But Gwen…”

“Rhys!”

Rhys understood the tone of her voice and hastily positioned himself behind Gwen, backing into the kitchen. Gwen could see herself reflected in the fly’s many eyes. It was like something out a science fiction movie. Gwen almost laughed hysterically. Her entire life was like something out of a science fiction movie these days. The fly settled itself on top of the television and began to rub long, hairy legs over itself, watching Gwen all the while. Gwen tried to assess the situation. Was the fly hostile? Apparently not. Therefore it needed to be contained, but how?

She was still considering this when the fly took off and launched itself towards her. Another set of thoughts raced through her mind. What if the fly secreted toxins poisonous to humans? She was about to shoot when she heard a loud hissing sound beside her left ear. A continuous stream of droplets shot past her face and the fly faltered in mid-air before dropping onto the carpet on its back. Rhys continued to spray the fly spray at it until it ceased moving altogether.

Gwen took no chances and fired at the fly’s head, splattering brown entrails across the living room. Rhys looked as though he might be about to vomit.

“You’re getting too trigger happy these days,” he told her, disgusted, holding an arm across his face as he stumbled backwards into the kitchen and put the empty spray can down on the table.

Gwen shoved her gun back into her handbag. She wafted a hand in front of her face to clear the overpowering fly spray. “Just help me get this thing back to the Hub,” she said.

-*-

Neil was two and a half pints down and king of conversation. The barmaid — he really did need to ask her name — smiled at him and he grinned back. He knew his cheeks were starting to numb but that was ok, because this was the perfect state of drunkenness. Not so drunk he wasn’t aware of his actions but drunk enough to lose his inhibitions and, if anything went wrong, well, he could always blame the alcohol.

She turned and murmured something to the barman, who, in Neil’s pleasantly tipsy opinion, should not be wearing trousers that tight. Then she leant forward over the bar and put her mouth so close to his ear that he could feel her hot breath on his cheek, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end despite the heat. “Let’s go outside,” she suggested.

Neil grinned goofily again as she squeezed out from behind the bar. “But...What about the kebab?” He wondered why his mouth and brain seemed to have this vendetta against his libido. Why on earth was he talking about kebabs when a gorgeous woman was hooking her thumbs into his belt loops and dragging him towards the door? He grabbed his pint off the bar. “Won’t your boss mind?” Seriously Neil, stop talking, he told himself. Just stop. Is it any wonder you’re still single?

The barmaid grabbed his hand and led him towards the patio doors. She nodded to the clock in the corner of the giant screen with a grin. “We’ve got fifteen minutes ‘til full time.” She walked backwards, tugging Neil along with her. “That lot won’t even notice.”

She was right. They were barely given a glance as they stumbled out through the doors and down the steps into the garden. Neil abandoned his pint on a picnic bench and sent a spray of gravel clattering against the fence from under his clumsy feet as she pulled him into the shadows at the end of the garden. When she finally clamped her lips over his, they were insistent and firm, bordering on aggressive, and Neil nearly melted as she wound her arms around his neck. He allowed his hands to wander down her back to cup her buttocks through her jeans as their tongues writhed together. Where bare skin met bare skin they were sticky and scorching. Neil had been subjected to involuntary celibacy for over five months now and the reaction in his general crotch region was practically Pavlovian.

The kiss was sweaty and breathless and brilliant. She began to moan against Neil’s mouth and he took the encouragement to wriggle his lager-swollen tongue a little further in. His lips were fat and aching which was a sad reflection on the lack of practice they’d had recently. The barmaid’s moans began to crescendo and Neil couldn’t believe his luck, when she suddenly pushed him away, gasping loudly. She coughed, as though she were choking, her breath coming in short, wheezy pants as she clutched at her throat.

“Wh..?” Neil’s eyes widened in fright. “Shit.” He silently willed his hard-on to subside. “Are you ok?”

Her skin was turning a terrifying shade of purple and her eyes were bulging out of her head. Neil moved towards her and went to thump her on the back, but he was stopped short by the tearing noise. He was sickeningly reminded of Sunday dinners and his mother ripping wings and legs off the roast chicken. The barmaid let out a shriek which died on her lips as the entirety of her skull split open like two halves of a coconut. The split didn’t end there. It continued down the entire length of her body.

Neil tried to back away, fell over his feet and landed on his backside on the gravel, palms splayed out behind him. From the barmaid’s discarded skin and bones, a five-foot long mosquito emerged, unfurling hairy legs and flitting translucent wings. Neil stared horrified as the mosquito tiptoed unsteadily forward before rearing and taking flight. It hovered for a few seconds in front of his face, before turning sharply and disappearing off into the night.

Behind him, in the bar, there was a roar of excitement as the referee’s third assistant signalled five minutes of extra time. Neil pulled his knees up to his chest and stuffed his fist into his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles and crying silent tears as he stared at the crumpled remains of the barmaid.


	3. Chapter 3

As the SUV sped out of the city and into the countryside, Ianto turned up the radio, listening intently to the football commentary. Jack glanced across at him, amused. Ianto was muttering under his breath as Wales lost possession yet again, and when Gabbidon conceded a free kick on the edge of their box he groaned loudly. Jack raised his eyebrows.

“I didn’t think you liked football,” he remarked.

“I do when Wales are playing,” Ianto explained, breathing a sigh of relief when the Uzbekistani striker’s shot flew over the crossbar.

“What’s the score?”

Jack was trying to be interested. He did manage it sometimes. He had once made a half-hearted attempt to learn the rules of rugby, but gave up when he realised how many there actually were.

“1-1,” Ianto told him.

“Is that good?”

“No. We have to win to have any chance of qualifying for the World Cup.”

Jack flicked on the indicator and pulled off the main road towards Llamau. “Isn’t it weird how people say ‘we’ when they refer to sports teams they follow? Like they’re on the pitch, like they can actually affect the outcome of the game.”

Ianto glared at him. “Shh.”

Jack grinned but said nothing more, instead letting the incomprehensible babble of the football commentary wash over him, and they drove the rest of the way to the farm in silence. As they travelled further from Cardiff, the sky faded from pink to inky blue. Tregarth Farm was located just outside the village of Llamau, a few miles southwest of Pontypridd. Jack approved of the new Sat-Nav that Ianto had installed. The big, friendly blue arrow (Jack had requested no red dots - red dots were apparently ominous) pointed him clearly in the right direction and so far it had yet to get them lost. Jack had a general mistrust of Satellite Navigation systems, since not only did they get you lost, they now seemed to have a nasty habit of releasing poisonous gas, and he preferred instead a good old map and compass. In the main Ianto tended to agree, but they needed an extra pair of hands these days and the Sat-Nav had been adapted from the highly sophisticated software at the Hub. Another side project Tosh had been working on before she died. Jack swung the SUV off the road and bumped it over the rutted farm track up to the house.

As he brought it to a halt in the middle of the farmyard, Ianto opened the glove box and began to rummage through it. His movements were deliberately slow. The game was in the last few minutes and if he could just drag this out a little longer he’d know the result before they went in. He drew out a stack of fake ID cards and shuffled through them. His breath caught in his throat when he came across one with Owen’s grainy picture on it: Dr Malcolm Asher, NHS. Ianto recognised his own handiwork. He swallowed and quickly tossed it back into the glove compartment, finally finding the cards he was looking for.

He handed one to Jack and slotted his own into the badge from his pocket just as the commentator announced that they would play five minutes of extra time. Ianto groaned loudly. “Five minutes. They’d better bloody make this most of this.”

Jack was already out of the SUV and moving towards the farmhouse. “Come on.”

Ianto stepped out of the passenger side and looked up at the sprawling old house. Its grey stone facade, dark-tiled roof and angular chimney stood prominent and windswept against the low-lying landscape. Tonight it was warm and clear but Ianto could imagine, from the bent trees and crumbling dry stone walls, that it would be a bleak and lonely place when the mist descended on the valley or a storm broke. They crossed the yard, which was striped with the moonlit shadows of a towering barn, and approached the front door. Jack stood back as Ianto knocked loudly with his knuckles on the thin wooden door, unable to locate a bell or knocker of any description.

After only a few moments, the door swung back and the farmer stood in his hallway, tweed shirt tucked into worn jeans. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal thick, weather-beaten forearms. Ianto placed him in his late fifties though it was clear his hair had thinned to the point of baldness many years ago.

“Martin Llewellyn?” Ianto enquired politely.

“Yes.” Martin peered past Ianto at Jack, frowning.

Ianto whipped the newly assembled warrant card out of his back pocket. “I’m Detective Sergeant Jones,” he said. “And this is DCI Harkness.” He gestured to Jack who was smirking. He was probably thinking about the last time they played Sergeant Jones and Inspector Harkness. Ianto, however, did not let his professionalism slide. “We’re here about the dragonflies?”

“Oh right, yes.” Martin’s frown deepened. “They sent detectives?”

“Yes. We were closest,” Ianto explained quickly. “Would you mind showing us where they are?”

“Aye right, yes. Hang on a mo.” Martin turned and reached behind him, grabbing a pair of large, manure-splattered wellington boots. He shoved his feet into them and Ianto glanced dubiously down at his new shoes. New because his last pair had taken on a strange orange stain that refused to come out. He sighed inwardly. At least cow shit should clean off.

“This way then.” 

Martin began to lead the way down a track which branched off at a right-angle to the main drive. Jack had his hands clasped behind his back and was staring up and out at the countryside rolling away from them; the south coast and the lights of Cardiff to their left and the land on their right rising up towards the vague jagged outline of the Black Mountains in the distance. He was gazing round as though he was simultaneously walking on the surface of the strangest alien planet and a long-forgotten landscape that felt like home. Ianto never could tell.

Ianto fell into step beside Martin and pointed to the humming milking parlour. “I take it you’re a dairy farmer?” he asked to break the silence.

“Aye,” Martin confirmed. “Got seventy-six milkers at the moment.”

“Is that a lot?” Ianto enquired politely.

Martin made a snuffling noise Ianto hoped was more a polite laugh than a dismissive snort. “Not as big as some, not as small as some,” he replied, forging his own brand of cryptic philosophy that could teach Jack a thing or two. “More soon hopefully - I’m getting a bull in next week. Giving him the run of me girls.”

“Ah.” Ianto was flummoxed. This was not his area of expertise. “Er, lucky for him,” he added weakly. Martin made another of the snuffling noises, which Ianto decided was more in the region of mild amusement at the floundering city boy. He decided to bring the conversation back round to a more comfortable subject matter. “Is it a family farm?”

“Aye yes,” Martin told him. “Been in the family five generations.” Ianto heard Martin’s fingers scratch his stubbly chin beside him in the dark. “Ends with me though,” he added, a little sadly. “No one to take it on, just a niece, and she’d rather die than come back to Wales to run her uncle’s farm.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Aye well, it happens.” Martin stopped abruptly and pointed over a five-bar gate into a wide field. “There they are.”

“Oh, wow.” Ianto breathed the words without thinking as soon as he saw the occupants of the field. 

He, Jack and Martin stood in a row, leaning on the gate and watched the six Skyrones as they flit about in the moonlight, apparently oblivious to their audience, or at least uninterested. With two foot long bodies and a four foot wide wingspan, they certainly were, as Martin had assessed, huge. Their long, thin abdomens shimmered in a rainbow of reds, blues and purples, glinting as they caught the pale light. The thin wings seemed almost candescent. Their movements were both graceful and playful as they hovered and darted around each other and Ianto was captivated as he observed the interactions.

“I walk round the farm last thing every night,” Martin explained in a reverent whisper. “Just to check up on things, you know? That’s when I saw them.”

“Must be a family group,” Jack murmured, head tilted to one side as he watched them, a faint nostalgic smile on his lips.

Martin glanced sideways at him, puzzled. “You seen these things before then?”

Jack rested his elbow on the top bar of the gate and propped his chin on his balled fist. “Once or twice.”

“What are they then?”

“Alien,” Jack told him, his tone almost sad.

“Oh right.” Martin missed his meaning. “Probably come over in the fruit and veg. Like those tarantulas in the grapes and what have you.” He shook his head and gave a disapproving sigh. “Bloody Australians.”

Jack didn’t seem to be listening but was simply staring out across the field. Ianto watched him, wondering, not for the first time, what was going through his mind. Jack suddenly inhaled sharply and straightened up. He met Ianto’s eye.

“We should get to work.” He glanced back up the track the way they had come. “I’ll go fetch the car.”

He strode off into the night and a few minutes later the roar of the SUV’s engine could be heard, the headlights bobbing as it lurched down the bumpy track. Jack pulled up beside Ianto and Martin and hopped out and Ianto finally dragged himself away from watching the Skyrones to take the butterfly net that Jack was proffering. Jack swung his coat off, a sign that he really meant business, and laid it over the bonnet. He put one hand in his pocket, held the net upright as though it were a staff and stared thoughtfully into the field.

Ianto stood beside him in a similar position. “Plan of attack?”

Jack grasped the gate decisively, stepping onto a lower rung and swinging his leg over so that he sat astride it. “There isn’t one,” he told Ianto, as he swung his other leg over and leapt into the field, heading purposefully towards the Skyrones.

“No change there then,” Ianto muttered, climbing over the gate behind him.

“Need a hand?” Martin offered warily from the other side.

Ianto turned to him with a polite smile. “I think we’ve got it covered.” He waggled the butterfly net in an attempt to back up his argument.

He turned around and surveyed the scene in front of him. Jack was walking slowly away to his left, so Ianto headed right, assuming that Jack was intending to quietly encircle the Skyrones. This illusion was shattered, however, when Jack suddenly started sprinting towards the aliens and waving his butterfly net around like a madman. The Skyrones immediately sensed their presence, stopped playing and started to evade.

Ianto sighed and began to approach one of the insects which had split off on its own. He might have suspected that there was a method in Jack’s apparent madness here if Jack hadn’t himself admitted that there wasn’t. The Skyrone landed and perched itself atop a crumbling tree stump facing away from Ianto. He stalked silently forward, his shoes sinking into the springy grass with every step, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the Skyrone and his net poised.

When he was within reaching distance, Ianto launched himself towards the alien, but it was too quick for him and took off, fluttering out of reach. Ianto stumbled in an effort to avoid snagging the net on the tree stump and ended up flat on his face. The grass felt damp under him and he hoped it was only the dew coming down. He pushed himself irritably to his feet and sprinted after the fleeing Skyrone. When he had nearly caught up with it, he lunged forward again and once again ended up lying face down on the ground.

He raised himself to his knees and looked despondently down at the grass stains streaking the front of his waistcoat. He had perfected methods of getting out all manner of strange alien stains by now but he still hadn’t come up with anything that could shift grass stains. And he particularly liked the cut of this waistcoat. Still, at least it was grass stains and not something else. The Skyrone, which seemed to be a little smaller than the others, was hovering tauntingly a few metres above him. Ianto scrambled to his feet but before he could reach up with his net, the Skyrone had taken off again.

Ianto ran after it, cursing when he turned his ankle slightly on a hillock, but staying upright. The Skyrone zipped round and doubled back, whizzing so close over the top of Ianto’s head that he felt his fringe lift. He swivelled quickly round and wafted his net in its direction, but it arced up and out of reach again.

He turned and saw the Skyrone heading for the field boundary. Oh no you don’t, Ianto thought. He would catch this Skyrone if he had to chase it all the way to England. Ianto shot over to the wall, climbed it with an agility which surprised even him and stood uncertainly on top of it as he held out his butterfly net and launched himself forward. The net closed around the Skyrone in mid air and Ianto landed in an ungainly heap in a patch of bracken on the other side of the wall, narrowly avoiding the water trough.

-*-

As Jack flung himself madly around the field, waving his butterfly net wildly about, he realised two things. The first was that although he could sustain no lasting damage, his body was not as agile as it had been when he was a child. The second was that he had never encountered a wild Skyrone before, and they were a lot warier and quicker than the tame ones sold as pets when he was growing up.

The city of Boeshane, perched out on the end of the Peninsula, had been small by Empire standards. A population of a little over two million lived in the high rise buildings. When Jack was nine, or thereabouts, and Gray was around five, they had begged and begged their parents for pets and been presented with a Skyrone each. He couldn’t remember what they’d named them. There wasn’t much space in the family’s apartment so the giant insects had been tethered by one leg to the rail of the balcony. It wasn’t uncommon and Jack hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, but as he chased them around now, he realised how cruel it was to have taken these creatures away from their family groups and tied them permanently to an unfamiliar world. Gray’s Skyrone died after only a couple of months, but by then he was bored with it anyway. Jack’s lived for nearly two years. He remembered standing at the open window, flying his kite and watching excitedly as his Skyrone flew with it. Having seen the family group interacting earlier, he realised now that perhaps it was simply longing for another of its kind to play with.

Martin Llewellyn was standing at the gate watching him and Ianto with an expression of perplexed amusement. Jack couldn’t see him at the moment but he was sure that Ianto was probably being very methodical in his approach. Jack didn’t have the patience to be methodical when it came to things like this. He didn’t have the patience to be methodical with many things. Instead he favoured the technique of running like crazy, brandishing his butterfly net hopefully and throwing himself at the Skyrones when they got too close. His clothes were covered in grass and mud and he hadn’t yet managed to catch one but it was only a matter of time.

Had they been contained inside, this operation would have been far easier. Jack had hoped they would be able to use the insect repellent which, although not powerful enough to kill insects of this size, would have at least sedated them, but out here in the open the repellent would simply dissipate off into the air.

He had one in his sights. It had beautiful golden stripes on its red thorax. He pelted after it across the field and when it darted to his right, he twisted and swung his net as though he was slogging a home run, scooping up the Skyrone in midair. Finding itself trapped, the insect struggled and only succeeded in tangling itself further in the net. Jack bunched the net closed above it.

“Hey, it’s ok,” he soothed quietly. “We’re just taking you somewhere safe.”

He began to trudge back across the field to the SUV. Somewhere in the distance a vixen yapped, the grating bark cutting through the still night air. Jack looked across the field and saw a dishevelled Ianto heaving himself back over the far wall with a Skyrone in his net. Two down, four to go.


	4. Chapter 4

The Hub was in darkness when the cog door rolled back, red light flashing and claxon sounding. Rhys was carrying a cardboard box full of moths in jars and Gwen was hefting the fly corpse in a bin bag, admitting to herself that she had to agree with Rhys’ complaint that bin bags weren’t what they used to be. The black plastic stretched thin in her sweaty hands as she flicked on the lights and flooded the vast space with light.

“Jack?” she yelled. “Ianto?”

She had learned from experience to make as much noise as possible when entering an apparently empty Hub to alert her workmates to her arrival. It saved an embarrassed Ianto and disturbing mental images. Her maxim was never expect to find Jack alone — or clothed. She cocked her head on one side and listened but there was no hasty scuffling or oblivious groaning. She dumped the bin bag beside her workstation.

“Put those over there.” She pointed to the coffee table and turned to Rhys who was staring up around at the Hub with his mouth open. She remembered that this was only his second view of the inside of her workplace and the last time he’d probably been so set on getting one up on Jack that he hadn’t wanted to show any amazement at the utterly mad world he’d just entered.

“Huh?” Rhys glanced at her.

“You can put those on the coffee table,” she repeated, pointing again, remembering how awestruck she had been when she first entered the Hub.

“Ok.” Rhys headed over and ditched the box on the coffee table. He dusted off his hands. “What now?”

Gwen switched on her PC and logged in. She wasn’t sure Jack would be pleased if he knew Rhys was here but she hadn’t wanted to drive with the moths on the backseat of her Fiat alone and Rhys had helped capturing them. They were short-staffed at the moment anyway. “We look them up on the database,” she told him.

“Oh right.” Rhys plonked himself down in Ianto’s chair and swung idly from side to side.

As she waited for the database to load, Gwen’s eyes strayed to the photograph in the corner of the screen. Rhys was mindlessly playing with the Rubix cube on Ianto’s desk. They’d packed away most of the things from Tosh’s desk but Jack had wordlessly left the Rubix cube on Ianto’s desk and it had stayed there ever since, each side a solid colour from the last time Tosh solved it. As Rhys obliviously twiddled one of the rows, she wanted to stop him, but she couldn’t without explaining, and she wasn’t sure she could without crying, and she’d cried enough over the last few months. She smiled sadly, stroked a knuckle gently over the creased photograph and mouthed ‘hello’.

When the database finally loaded, she picked up the handy instructions for searching it that Ianto had printed out. He’d even laminated them. She doubted that Jack had his own set of laminated instructions. If he wanted to look anything up, he just asked Ianto. Gwen followed Ianto’s neat flow chart and entered the relevant search terms in the primary, secondary and tertiary keyword search fields — moth, large and sentient — and hit return. The search returned thirty-two entries. She frowned and scanned down Ianto’s instructions for the ‘narrowing down your search results’ section.

“I’m crap at these things,” Rhys announced loudly, setting the scrambled Rubix cube back down on the desk. Gwen felt her chest constrict as she looked at it. She wondered what Ianto would say when he saw it. Probably nothing. He’d doubtless just re-solve it before Jack saw. Rhys got out of his seat and went over to slump on the sofa. “Any luck?” he asked.

Gwen shook her head. “Not yet.” She made her search more specific and this time it returned no matching entries. She sighed, frustrated, unsure whether or not to trust Ianto’s data entry and then mentally scolding herself. Ianto was nothing if not meticulous and she felt guilty at doubting him.

She was about to run a search on the giant fly when her mobile began to ring. She shifted in her seat so that she could slide it out of her jeans pocket. It was Andy. She accepted the call and brought the phone to her ear. “What’s up?” she answered.

“Gwen Cooper?” It wasn’t Andy on the other end but a woman.

“Yes.” She frowned. “Who is this? This is Andy’s phone, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sorry, I borrowed it,” the woman told her and Gwen recognised the voice though she couldn’t quite place it. “This is DCI Swanson.”

“Ah, Chief Inspector Swanson.” Gwen smiled. “Congratulations on your promotion.”

“Thank you.” Swanson sounded as though she hadn’t quite decided whether the promotion was a blessing or a curse. Gwen knew the feeling. “I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

“Oh?” Gwen guessed it wasn’t a social call.

“Yes, we’ve got a strange case, at the Car-Bar, off Park Place,” Swanson explained. “Barmaid turned into a mosquito.”

Gwen’s eyebrows shot up under her fringe. Swanson didn’t even sound disturbed by the frankly disturbing information she had just imparted. She simply sounded weary. “A mosquito?” Gwen repeated, just to make sure.

“Yes.”

“Ok.” Gwen closed down the Torchwood database and logged off her PC. “We’re on our way.”

“Thank you.”

Swanson hung up and Gwen got to her feet. Rhys looked at her enquiringly from the sofa, stuffing a hand into his mouth around a yawn. She rummaged around under the mountains of rubbish on her desk for her PDA.

“Got to go,” Gwen told him. “There’s been an incident.” She finally laid her hands on it, hoped that the battery was charged, and shoved it into her handbag. “You stay here,” she instructed, guessing that since neither Jack nor Ianto were here, the SUV wouldn’t be either. “Keep an eye on them.” She nodded towards the moths. “Do not let them get free in here,” she warned darkly. “We’ll never catch them.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Rhys yawned again and sat forward, looking around with a curious frown. “Is there anywhere I can watch telly in here?” he asked hopefully.

Gwen sighed. Bloody football. “Boardroom,” she told him, pointing. “The remote should be up there somewhere.”

“Cheers love.” Rhys looked happier than he had done all night. Bring him to a top secret base with all manner of alien artefacts and technology and he just wanted to know where the nearest television was.

“I’ll see you later,” Gwen said. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I won’t,” Rhys assured her, picking up the box full of jam jars and heading up to the boardroom.

Gwen watched him go with a slight smile on her lips before bringing her phone out of her pocket and dialling Jack’s number as she headed for the door.

-*-

Martin sat at the kitchen table, his gnarled fingers twining and untwining, swaying his head from side to side in constant, disbelieving shakes. Ianto moved around the kitchen with his usual efficiency. For a single man’s kitchen, it was arranged in a remarkably logical and neat way. And since when had Ianto stopped considering himself to be a single man, he wondered? He filled the kettle and put it on to boil.

“I mean, you just don’t expect it do you?” Martin said for the fifteenth time. “Aliens?” He blew out his cheeks. “Never thought I’d meet aliens.”

“It takes a bit of getting used to,” Ianto agreed sympathetically, locating a mug and a teabag. “Milk and sugar?”

“What?” Martin looked round, suddenly realising what Ianto was doing. “Oh. You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s no trouble.” Ianto smiled pleasantly. “You’ve had quite a shock.”

“Aye, thanks.” Martin went back to shaking his head. “Milk no sugar, ta.”

The water boiled and Ianto poured it over the tea bag. The teaspoons were in the front of the cutlery drawer and the milk — in date — was in the fridge door. Ianto approved of this kitchen. He liked Martin Llewellyn. Which made what he had to do a bit of a shame. He turned to see Martin still blankly staring ahead, occasionally making disbelieving little snorts and still shaking his head. Ianto turned back to the cup of tea and dropped the small white pill in. Retcon victim number 3,234. Tomorrow morning, Martin Llewellyn would wake up at his kitchen table with an aching neck and decide that he’d been overdoing it a little lately. He would know nothing about aliens.

Ianto set the tea down in front of him and took a seat on the other side of the table. Toenails clicked on tile and a border collie trotted into the kitchen. Ianto didn’t believe in anthropomorphising, but if dogs could frown, this one did as he looked at Ianto sitting in his kitchen. The dog prowled suspiciously round the table and positioned himself between his master and this usurper. The dog stared at him and Ianto stared back, a little unnerved by the look in the dog’s eyes. There was no way the dog could know what he’d done, was there?

“Easy Dai.” Martin reached down and scratched the dog between his ears. Dai gave him a disapproving look but settled down on the floor with his long muzzle resting across Martin’s socked feet. “He’s a bit possessive.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for this though.” Martin pulled the tea towards him and took a gulp. “I mean for everything, and all this...this is what you do?”

Ianto nodded. “Mostly.”

“Blimey.”

Ianto let Martin chatter on in a similar vein until his words started to slur and his eyelids drooped. When his head sunk forward onto the table, Ianto quietly stood up and picked up his teacup. Dai followed him suspiciously with his eyes, a low growl building in his throat, as Ianto poured the remains of the cold tea down the plughole, rinsed out the cup and left it upside down in the draining rack. As he headed for the door, the growl became a yellow-toothed snarl. The dog got to its feet and Ianto beat a hasty retreat, quickly letting himself out of the front door and slamming it behind him.

The dog was barking loudly now, the sound amplified in the heavy night air, as Ianto pushed his hands into his pockets, put his head down and walked quickly across the farmyard, making sure to step gracefully around the heaps of manure dolloped randomly about. As he let himself out of the gate and started down the track towards the SUV, a hand reached out of the shadows of the silage store and grabbed him round the waist. Startled, Ianto tried to pull away, but the arm held him fast.

Warm lips pressed against his and he smiled into the kiss. Jack pulled back, let him go and laughed. Ianto hoped the moonlight wouldn’t illuminate his red cheeks too badly, or maybe he could just blame it on the unusually warm night.

“What was that for?” he asked.

Jack shrugged. “Just ‘cause.” He fell into step beside Ianto as they walked the last few paces to the SUV. “Everything go alright in there?”

“Swimmingly,” Ianto replied. The barking was dying down now.

“Great.” Jack reached the SUV first and hopped up onto the bonnet, leaning against the windscreen, his legs stuck out in front of him. Ianto raised a quizzical eyebrow and Jack responded with his big kid grin and patted the bonnet beside him.

“Shouldn’t we be getting back to the Hub?” Ianto asked as he pulled himself up onto the bonnet and shuffled backwards so he was sitting beside Jack.

“Live for the moment,” Jack teased. “Look up.”

Ianto folded his hands neatly in his lap and did so. “What am I looking at?”

“The stars,” Jack told him, as though it was obvious.

“Which ones?”

Jack put an arm around Ianto’s shoulders, rested their heads together and pointed. “Know that one?”

Ianto looked sideways at him and rolled his eyes. “That’s The Plough Jack,” he said. “Part of the Great Bear constellation. I think I learnt about that one in primary school.”

Jack pulled a face at him, but kept his arm around Ianto’s shoulders. Jack, still wearing his thick greatcoat, was radiating heat as usual and his close proximity was stifling in the oppressive heat, but Ianto couldn’t care less. Moments like this, alone with Jack, made everything worthwhile.

“Yeah, but that’s Merak, and Dubhe.” Jack pointed. “Alcor, Mizar.”

“Very impressive,” Ianto told him dryly.

“Shut up, I have a point,” Jack retorted and Ianto smiled. Jack pointed back up at the inky sky, every star mapped out in dazzling, glittering glory. God’s own disco, Lisa had once said when they were lying hand in hand in the grass outside their tent on the banks of the Vilaine. “That’s Alkaid, the furthest star on the left,” Jack continued. “There’s another star, a tiny little speck of light, just to the left. Can you see it?”

“Yeah.” 

“Your scientists call it M51,” Jack explained. “Or the Whirlpool Galaxy.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow. “My scientists?”

Jack shot him a look. “ _Earth_ scientists,” he clarified.

“Ok then, what do you call it?”

“I don’t call it anything,” Jack replied flippantly. “But I visited a planet there once, when I was with the Time Agency. Merthoid. Bit of a backwater, arable farmers mostly, even in the 27th century. They called it the Ishiwaron Kale.” Jack paused dramatically, for his big reveal. He was such a showman. “Rough translation - the Milky Belt.”

Ianto snorted. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Jack protested. “Think about it, what does your galaxy look like from your own planet?” He waved an arm along the faint, fuzzy white glow arching across the celestial sphere above them. “It’s not such a huge coincidence.”

“I guess.” Ianto tilted his head right back, like a kid at a fireworks display - a kid he had been once - and scanned the sky above him. “You can’t see the stars in the city,” he remarked.

“No,” Jack agreed. “Do you see that one?” He pointed again and Ianto followed the line of his arm. He wasn’t quite sure what Jack was pointing at, given that the sky out here was peppered with billions of stars, but he nodded anyway.

“That’s M104,” Jack explained. “The Sombrero Galaxy.”

“I’ve seen pictures of that,” Ianto recalled.

“There’s a planet there called Redro,” Jack told him. “They have real life mermaids, no kidding. It was like all my boyhood fantasies come true.”

“They still had ‘The Little Mermaid’ in the 51st century then?” Ianto enquired.

Jack looked puzzled. “Huh?”

“Never mind.” Ianto smiled. “You could be talking complete bollocks, you know,” he pointed out. “How would I know?”

“Seen as much as I have, you don’t have to make it up,” Jack assured him.

“I suppose so.”

They lapsed into silence and Ianto became aware that Jack’s right hand was on his thigh, moving slowly up towards his groin. He looked across at him and Jack flashed him another of his smiles; one that Ianto knew all too well.

“Haven’t you always found stargazing kinda erotic?” he asked suggestively.

“Astronomy Club was full of pimply, bespectacled nerds,” Ianto recalled flatly. “So no.”

Jack laughed and twisted his torso, wrapping both arms around Ianto as he kissed him. Ianto didn’t question whether or not it was a sensible idea to have sex on the bonnet of the SUV on a farm track in the middle of nowhere. He just kissed Jack back. Damn right he was going to live for the moment.

Jack broke the kiss and laughed as he traced his tongue down over Ianto’s throat. “You were in Astronomy Club?” he laughed.

“Shut up,” Ianto growled. “It made me the man I am today.”

Jack found his mouth again, tongues hungrily exploring, when the SUV began to lurch violently from side to side. Ianto half broke the kiss to glance behind them and saw that the Skyrones had recovered from their earlier sedative and were frantically slamming into the sides of their cage.

Jack sighed. “Damn.”

“Unless…” Ianto began.

“What?”

Ianto gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “We fog ‘em again.”

Jack’s face split into a dazzling grin. “I like your thinking.” He reached into the pocket of his greatcoat for the can of bug spray when his mobile began to ring. He pulled an apologetic face and tugged it out of his pocket. “Gwen, hi,” he answered.

Ianto sighed heavily, rolled away and let his head thud back against the windscreen. So much for spontaneity. Bloody Torchwood. Jack was making non-committal noises in response to Gwen’s tinny babbling on the other end of the phone. The blood was rapidly draining from Ianto’s groin and looking up now, the stars were an incomprehensible blur, making him feel strangely insignificant. He shivered at the thought, one that troubled him now and again, but never for too long, and watched Jack, who hung up.

“Sorry.” He slithered forward off the bonnet as he pushed his phone back into his pocket. “We’ve got to go. Gwen’s got a weird one.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Ianto muttered as he followed Jack off the bonnet, ready with his can of bug spray to subdue the Skyrones for the drive back into the city.


	5. Chapter 5

Detective Inspector Arthur Robinson sped down the Boulevard de Nantes in his silver Lexus SC 430, the Dave Brubeck Quartet blasting out through the stereo, fully retractable aluminium hardtop open to let in the warm night air. Despite the heat, he was wearing a dark, well-tailored overcoat, a ribbed black sweatshirt with a button down neck that hugged his muscled torso in all the right places, midnight blue jeans and four hundred pound Ferragamo ankle boots in brown leather that his brother had sent up from Oxford Street. Unlike the rest of the CID, Arthur was never seen in an ill-fitting suit and mismatching shirt and tie. He lived to defy stereotypes.

He swung the Lexus right at the traffic lights — such beautiful handling — and turned into Park Place. Another right past the theatre and he was squealing to a halt behind the squad car already parked outside the Car-Bar. A ridiculous amalgamation that some bright spark, somewhere, had thought was cool. ‘It’s a bar, in Cardiff — y’know, it’s a Car-Bar.’ There were crowds of curious onlookers milling around by the police incident tape.

As Arthur leapt over the car door into the street with feline grace, he caught the eye roll of the Sergeant loitering around the door, hands tucked inside his bulletproof vest. He was in his mid-forties, married with kids - old school copper. Arthur got those looks a lot around the station; he was used to it.

“Evening Jim,” he greeted the Sergeant as he breezed past him into the bar. Arthur’s clipped officer-class English accent tended to stand out a little in Cardiff.

“Evening sir,” he responded, though the words clearly tasted bitter in his mouth.

Arthur strode into the pub, hands in pockets, pulling himself up to his full five foot nine inches, which was adequate enough in his opinion, and looked around. The bar was virtually empty, save the staff, the odd officer and a group of lads. On the giant screen at one end of the room, three pundits were discussing the match in monotonous drones. As with most sports, Arthur had a passing interest, but unless England were involved he was unlikely to go out of his way to watch it.

A young blonde PC, all bright eyed and eager to please, came scurrying over from the direction of the bar. She was going to be sorely disappointed if she thought her cute smile and tight blouse would have any effect on him. She stopped a few paces away, looking him up and down dubiously. She had obviously been warned what to expect but hadn’t counted on the reality being quite this good.

“DI Robinson?” she ventured.

“Yep,” he confirmed, lowering his deep hazel eyes slowly to meet her nervous gaze.

“They’re waiting for you out the back,” she told him, gesturing.

“Thanks.” He ran a hand through his dark hair which was just the right length to always flop perfectly back into place. Without another word, he spun smartly on his heel and disappeared out through the patio doors into the beer garden. He crossed the terrace and bounded down the steps to join his colleagues in the courtyard.

“Mandy — looking good; Terry — looking sweaty,” Arthur greeted them with a grin. “What have we got?”

“Bit of a weird one sir,” Mandy told him. Detective Sergeant Amanda Willis; single mum, constantly harassed but still looking good for her thirty six years and a fantastically perceptive detective. “Barmaid, one Millie Jenkins, sheds her skin and turns into a giant mosquito.”

Arthur snorted in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“You heard.” She gestured to spot in the far corner of the garden, buried in the shade of a high razor-wire topped fence and hairy—trunked palm tree that had seen better days. “Take a look.”

Arthur brushed past a group of uniformed officers huddled around one of the picnic benches and went to inspect the area. As he approached, he could make out a misshapen crumpled heap, which could easily have been mistaken for a discarded pile of clothes. When he got closer, however, it became apparent that it was indeed a mound of human skin.

“See what I mean?” It was Mandy’s voice at his shoulder. “Weird.”

“Hmm.” Arthur crouched down to examine the skin a little closer. He could make out an eye, blonde hair, fingernails, and the baggy outline of a body. Shreds of the girl’s clothing hung in tatters off the remains. It might have turned a lesser man’s stomach but Arthur had seen far worse in Helmand. This, however, was not another dismembered squaddy; it was something altogether more bizarre. He stood up. “Any witnesses?”

“Just one.” Mandy pointed back towards the knot of police and Arthur realised that they were crowding round a young man who was sitting hunched over on the picnic bench, white as a sheet and chewing his fingernails. Arthur moved towards him. “Neil Maloney,” Mandy informed him, following him over. “Student. He and the deceased were, well, you know… At the time.”

Arthur turned to her and winked. “Copping off?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you want to put it like that.”

“Neil, hi.” Arthur parted the uniforms with ease. “How’re you doing?” He flashed a set of perfect teeth and sat down beside Neil on the bench, long legs stretched in front of him, lounging back against the table. The young man glanced across at him with wide, frightened eyes. A half finished pint of lager sat behind him on the table. “Want to tell me what happened here?”

“I already told them,” he said, hugging his arms around his chest defensively. Arthur recognised the Mancunian accent and smiled.

“I’d like to hear it again,” Arthur told him. “From the horse’s mouth as it were.”

The uniforms had backed off now, half-heartedly listening to the echoing drone from the television. The hairs on Neil’s forearms were standing on end despite the heat and he looked like he was going to be sick. He shuffled his Vans in the gravel and picked at the splintering bench between his legs.

“Go on,” Arthur encouraged gently. Mandy was watching closely and sympathetically. She was good at that.

Neil took a deep breath. “Well, we come out here, right, after the match kicked off again, ‘cause I weren’t here for the football, was I? And she was dead bored. So we come out here, for, well, you know…” He trailed off and looked sideways at Arthur again. Arthur nodded — he knew. “So we start kissing right? And then she started coughing, like really coughing, and then her skin starts peeling away and there’s this giant mosquito thing instead. And it flew off.” He paused and swallowed, shuddering at the memory. “And then I called you lot.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “How much have you had to drink?”

Neil followed Arthur’s gaze to the half empty glass on the table. “I’ve had two pints and I’m not pissed,” he insisted indignantly, glaring defiantly at the policeman. “And her skin’s lying on the floor over there for fuck’s sake!” He pointed with a trembling arm before quickly hugging it back around his chest.

Arthur did have to concede that he had a point. “Did you come with friends tonight Neil?”

He nodded. “They’re inside.”

Arthur sat forward and removed his wallet from his pocket. He took out a twenty pound note — one of several — and handed it to Mandy. “Buy the lad a drink please, Sergeant Willis,” he instructed, as he stood up. “Something a little stronger than beer I think.” He patted Neil companionably on the shoulder. “And if you’re lucky I’ll let you buy me one sometime.”

Neil stared at Arthur’s dazzling smile in bewilderment as Mandy gently took his elbow, pulled him to his feet and steered him back inside. There were more questions Arthur wanted to ask but they could wait for now.

“Good game Terry?” Arthur clapped a hand on DC Terrence Cole’s shoulder and startled him out of a slack jawed trance, leaning heavily over the hand rail of the steps and staring in through the window to the big screen inside.

“2-1 to Uzbekistan,” he responded gloomily.

“I couldn’t care less,” Arthur told him cheerfully. “I presume you’ve called our forensic friends?”

Terry coughed and straightened up. “Yes, they’re on their way.” He pulled a grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped a layer of perspiration from his forehead. Terry was overweight, middle aged and, since his wife had left him and moved his twin daughters away from Cardiff, he had existed on a diet of microwave meals, cheap scotch and Marlboro Golds. He perspired permanently but this heat wave had sent his sweat glands into overdrive and large damp patches were spreading rapidly out from under his armpits, across the worn cotton of his pale grey shirt.

“Good.” Arthur slowly swivelled around, taking in the scene, analysing angles, checking every tiny detail, composing a reconstruction in his mind. “Anybody else see anything?”

Terry gave a half-hearted shrug. “No. Too busy watching the game I guess.”

“Excuse me sir?” It was the eager blonde again, hovering anxiously by his elbow.

Arthur swung round to face her. “Yes? What?”

She blinked back at him uncertainly and then decided to go ahead and impart her message anyway. “It’s DCI Swanson sir,” she told him. “She said that Torchwood are on their way.”

-*-

Dr Claire Turner cursed loudly as her Daihatsu smoked through the centre of town. The engine warning light was flashing on the dashboard but she knew from experience that as long as she kept the car out of second gear at all costs she would be fine. She had spent two months in her dream job now and the pay packet wasn’t getting any larger. Budget cuts. You did the wrong degree if you want to make your fortune; should’ve stuck to regular medicine and worked her way up the ladder. But where was the kick in that?

Claire knew that as a pathologist she sometimes got strange looks from people who wondered why she did it but she honestly didn’t care. Her mother cringed at the very thought of it and had moved from crushing hugs to craning her neck forward and presenting her cheek for a kiss. She told all the ladies in her WI that Claire was a nurse because it was less embarrassing, and saved her crushing hugs and motherly pride for Tim, the best son-in-law-to-be that a woman could wish for. And Claire was fine with that. Her mother loved Tim and she loved Tim, and even her father liked him, so it didn’t matter that her boss was the laziest man on Earth who had sent her to see a crime scene alone because he was too busy watching the football. She could do this. Never mind that it was her first time on her own and it was ‘weird one’ that the DC on the other end of the phone sounded more than a little freaked out about. It didn’t matter because she was a qualified, competent pathologist with a boyfriend and parents who loved her.

She was taking the long way round. After four years in Cardiff, her knowledge of the inner city road layout was appalling. She’d tried to get to the crime scene one way and realised that it was a bus route only, tried another and realised it was pedestrianised and was now on a tour of the city’s one-way streets which were unhelpfully not marked on her A-Z. Another warning light joined the dashboard disco, though she had no idea what it was warning her about. She’d be thirty in three months time and had spent over ten years in training. One day she’d be driving a Lexus like the one already parked outside the bar.

She pulled up behind the Lexus, at an angle to the curb, whilst the PC manning the cordon watched her sceptically and, to add to her embarrassment, took her foot off the clutch a few seconds too soon and stalled it. The car lurched forward and stopped a few inches from the Lexus’ rear bumper. She got out, fumbled her equipment from the boot and headed for the cordon. She juggled the case as she searched through her pockets for her ID. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, sweating already, she flashed it at the officer who raised amused eyebrows and held up the incident tape for her to enter.

Inside the empty bar, she approached the nearest officer who was sitting at one of the tables with his feet kicked out in front of him. A small group of lads were sitting uncomfortably at the next table. Claire flashed her ID again.

“Dr Turner,” she introduced herself. “Who’s in charge?”

The officer shifted in his seat slightly but didn’t stand. “Robinson,” he told her, flicking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the pub garden.

“Thanks.” Great. Just bloody great. She should’ve remembered the Lexus from last time. She headed out through the patio doors and onto the decking. She recognised DS Willis and DC Cole. She tended to deal with the CID more often than uniform.

Willis smiled at her. “Body’s down there,” she told her, nodding to the far corner of the pub garden.

Claire returned the smile, knowing that Mandy Willis was everything that she would never be. Thin, composed and socially competent. “Thanks.” She trotted down the steps and made her way over the corner of the garden where a familiar figure was bending over. Three or four uniformed officers milled about uncertainly.

“DI Robinson.” Claire stood behind him and cleared his throat.

Arthur turned and squinted up at her, looking, as always, as though he had just walked off the set of the latest Hollywood blockbuster. “Dr Turner.” He stood up. “Where’s Ken?”

Claire closed her eyes and counted to at least three before answering. “Watching the football,” she told Arthur as politely as possible. “Is that the body?” She pointed at the mangled mess behind him and set down her case.

Arthur stuffed his hands into his pockets and snorted. “So he just sent you?”

“I’m fully qualified, thank you,” she shot back, bending down to unclip her instrument case. She pulled out her protective suit and stood up to face him. “Has anyone touched the body?” It came out a little more sharply than she had intended but she was trying to avoid the fact that the body appeared to be little more than a mass of skin.

Arthur simply smirked and trapped his bottom lip under his teeth. “Mm, feisty,” he declared, with an accompanying twitch of both eyebrows.

Claire gritted her teeth. “Has anyone touched the body?” she repeated.

Arthur laughed, which grated even more. “No,” he assured her, as though he were talking to a child.

“Thank you.” Claire turned away from him as she shoved one foot into the leg of her suit. She hoped she’d picked up one in the right size this time. That had been embarrassing. She hopped about on one foot, desperately trying to stay upright, which was never an easy task. She could feel rather than see Arthur’s amusement. She had worked with him on several cases as a trainee and knew that he was a good detective, but she just couldn’t help getting rubbed up the wrong way by him.

When she had zipped up the suit, she fetched a powerful halogen lamp out from the kit and set it up so that it illuminated the body. She swallowed when she saw it. The DC had been right. It was a weird one. The remains were nothing but skin and hair, lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Claire crouched down beside it and swallowed down the bile rising in her throat.

“Have you got another light?” she asked Arthur, gesturing at the lamp without looking up to see what irritating expression he might have on his face.

“I’ll ask.”

Claire heard his footsteps crunch away across the gravel and was left alone with the skin. She took a deep breath and reached for a pair of silicon gloves. She snapped them on and reached out to touch what was the ragged remains of an arm. The skin was still warm through the glove. Or maybe that was the warm night. She tried to focus. Possible cause of death?

“Oh, here we go,” she heard one of the uniformed officers behind her mutter.

“Bloody Torchwood,” his companion agreed. “That’s us done for the night then.”

Claire had heard the name Torchwood bandied about ever since she first arrived in Cardiff, fresh from her first year of training in Sheffield, but she had not dealt with them yet. There were a thousand government agencies, all with different acronyms, that were spoken about in connection to police work, and she had assumed that Torchwood was just another one. She turned to see what had caused the outburst. A dark-haired woman in jeans and a rather attractive top that Claire would love to able to wear but knew would show off her muffin top to spectacular effect, was talking to one of the PCs. As she approached across the pub garden, smiling a breezy, gap-toothed smile at the assorted onlookers, Claire decided that Torchwood must be some sort of social agency, and turned back to the mess in front of her.


	6. Chapter 6

Gwen could tell that the young pathologist was fighting the urge to gag as she squatted over the corpse — if you could call it a corpse — in her unflattering white romper suit. Gwen crouched beside her and eyed up the pile of skin. The pathologist had probably never seen anything quite like it before. It wasn’t exactly a run of the mill murder victim after all. It was nothing compared to some of the dismembered, partially dismembered and downright grotesque autopsies she and Jack had had to deal with since, well… Gwen pushed that thought aside. Still, at least the pathologist was _fighting_ the urge to gag. A lot of the officers Gwen used to work with would have been vomiting over the palm tree by now.

The pathologist glanced up at her. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Gwen gave her an encouraging smile. “Gwen Cooper, Torchwood.” She stuck out a hand which the pathologist shook with a latex glove.

“Claire Turner.” She gestured at the remains. “Seen anything like this before?”

“Nope.” Gwen shook her head. “Any thoughts?”

Claire swallowed down the bile rising in her throat. She had a strong stomach — requisite for the job really — but this was something else. “Well,” she began, composing herself. “It appears to be just skin.” She reached into her medical case and took out a pointer. “And, uh, clothes obviously.” Claire delicately used the pointer to lift a flap of what had been a thigh; a jumble of squishy flesh and denim. “No internal organs, no bones, and only a thin layer of muscle.” She moved to the head. “Skull, brain, eyes, teeth and tongue have been taken. Hair left behind. And, um, fingernails.” She pointed to the hand. “Although.” She peered closely at it. “I think they’re fake.”

“Hmm.” Gwen stood up and folded her arms as she considered the situation. “Do you think something removed the body?”

Claire squinted up at her. “Like a skinning?”

“Yeah.”

She chewed her lip as she leaned in to inspect the jagged tear down the centre of the chest. “Left the breasts,” she noted hoarsely. “I’d have to do some more tests but first impressions look like the body…” She trailed off, stunned by her own conclusion. “Well, like it burst out of the skin.”

“That’s what the kid said.” The man had appeared at Gwen’s shoulder without her noticing, she was so engrossed in Claire’s observations. She turned and came face to face with a clean-shaven, square-jawed, stunningly attractive Englishman. He curled his lips into a smile. “You must be Torchwood.”

“Gwen Cooper.”

He shook her proffered hand firmly. “DI Robinson.” He swept an arm around at the pub garden as though it was his stage. “This is my case.”

“Was.” Gwen smiled pleasantly. “Looks like we’re going to have to take over I’m afraid.”

Arthur eyes narrowed his brown eyes and swept his coat back with his hands as he put them on his hips and pushed out his broad chest. “And why would that be?” he enquired defensively.

“This is a Torchwood matter.” Gwen gestured to the remains and smiled again. She was used to dealing with over-inflated male egos.

Arthur shook his head firmly, a patronising smile on his lips. “Sorry, but until I hear anything to the contrary from above, this is my case.”

“DCI Swanson rang me,” Gwen explained. “I believe she is above you, Inspector.”

“She didn’t ring me,” Arthur told her. “And until she does, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fine.” Gwen smiled again and turned away from him. “My boss will be here soon, and you’ll be hard pushed to find a higher authority than him.”

-*-

The bar was virtually empty when Jack swept into it, followed closely by Ianto. A shell-shocked barman wiped absentmindedly around the same spot on the bar top. The four young lads sitting around a table in the corner eyed them curiously when they entered, as did the handful of fluorescent-jacketed police officers hanging round. Ianto ignored them and concentrated instead on the screen of the scanner in his hand.

“Signal’s getting stronger,” he informed Jack.

“Pub garden?” Jack asked the assembled masses without stopping.

One of the officers raised a weary arm and pointed. Jack strode off and Ianto gave her a polite smile on his behalf as he hurried after him. They arrived on the steps and surveyed the scene below. A pathologist was bent over a shady shape in the corner whilst Gwen stood beside her, talking to a man in a well-tailored black coat. Ianto glanced to his right and saw a bored-looking woman sitting with her feet up on the rail which an overweight man was leaning on as he smoked a cigarette. He offered them a polite smile too for good measure. Unlike Jack, Ianto didn’t believe in pissing off everyone in sight before he’d established their usefulness.

Gwen caught sight of them and walked over as Jack descended the steps into the garden. “What have we got?” Jack asked before she could even say hello or remark on their appearance.

Ianto rolled his eyes at Gwen over Jack’s shoulder and she smirked. “Exactly as I told you on the phone,” she explained. “Pile of skin.”

“Readings are going berserk,” Ianto told them.

“Right.” Jack started towards the body. “Anyone see anything?”

“Excuse me,” Arthur butted in. “This is my case.”

Jack turned to him as though he had only just seen him there. “Not anymore.” He made a dismissive hand gesture. “This is a Torchwood matter now.”

Arthur snorted derisively. “I don’t think so.”

Jack whirled around and stared him down, using his height advantage to loom over the detective. “And you are?”

Gwen glanced at Ianto and pulled a ‘here we go’ face. Ianto gave a tiny shake of his head, observing that Jack and the policeman were the only two people wearing coats on a night like this. Gwen was in short-sleeved top and Ianto in shirtsleeves under just a waistcoat. Gwen wondered why both Jack and Ianto were covered in grass stains and looking unusually dishevelled. There were two possible explanations: Torchwood or exhibitionism. Given that the grass stains were on their clothes, she’d have to go for Torchwood.

“DI Robinson,” Arthur told him. “Who the hell are you?”

“Captain Jack Harkness.” If the detective wanted to have a title-off, Jack would win any day. He’d held a lot of titles over the years. “You can brief us before you leave.”

Arthur glanced at the insignia on Harkness’ shoulder. RAF. Typical. Arrogant fucks who swan around and leave the army to do the hard work. Well, an RAF Group Captain might outrank a Major, but if Harkness wanted to compare anything else, he was welcome. “Not until you tell me exactly what Torchwood is,” he declared.

“It’s classified.” Jack had to admit that Arthur was impossibly good looking and, in other circumstances, Jack might suggest they discussed their differences over a drink, but there was something about the detective that was getting under his skin.

“And classified means bugger all to me,” Arthur countered. Hollywood handsome had never been his type.

Ianto cleared his throat and stepped in. Arthur suddenly noticed him and an entirely different expression took over his features. Ianto skilfully manoeuvred his body so that Jack was forced to take a step back and stuck out a hand. “Ianto Jones,” he introduced himself. “We seem to have got off on the wrong foot.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Arthur shook his hand, warm and firm, and grinned at him, eyes roaming up and down his body, and Ianto was torn between embarrassment and curiosity.

“No.” Ianto maintained his composure. “So if you could just give us a quick briefing?”

“Sure.” Arthur rolled his tongue around the back of his teeth. “I’ll give you a quick briefing.” He emphasised the words and imbued them with suggestion. This guy had gorgeous eyes and filled his suit very nicely; the dishevelled, grass-stained look made him even more attractive, in a James Bond sort of way. Much quirkier looking than Captain America and much more appealing.

“Thanks.” Ianto didn’t even want to know what expression was on Jack’s face right now. He could see Gwen smirking out of the corner of his eye.

“This way.” Arthur smiled again and gestured to the far end of the garden.

Jack and Ianto followed him down to where the pathologist was bending over the body. Arthur cocked his head on one side, staring at her white-suited backside. It was big, but then, straight men liked curves, didn’t they?

“Nice view,” he announced. “Objectively speaking.”

Ianto risked a look at Jack and rolled his eyes. “God help us — it’s your English cousin.”

Jack shot him a decidedly unimpressed look back and stepped forward. Ianto smirked and shoved his hands into his pockets, making eyes at Gwen.

“Dr Turner,” Arthur addressed the pathologist and she turned and saw them.

“Yes?” Claire decided that the Gods were smiling on her tonight, alongside the three hot guys standing over her. You have a boyfriend, she reminded herself. You love him. She stood up and pulled a strand of hair out of her mouth.

“Ianto Jones and…” Arthur paused and made a show of deliberately not remembering Harkness’ name. “Sorry, was it Harker?”

“Harkness,” Jack corrected him tetchily. Then he directed a warm smile at the pathologist. “Cap’n Jack Harkness.” He shook her hand. “What can you tell us?”

“Well, like I said to your colleague.” She gestured to Gwen. “It looks like the body burst out of the skin.”

Jack nodded, not hugely surprised by that. “Any witnesses?”

“One student, Neil Maloney,” Arthur informed him. “He corroborates Dr Turner’s theory. Says a giant mosquito burst out of the skin.”

“Where is he?”

“Inside with his mates, having a drink.” Arthur jerked his head back towards the bar. “Thought he needed something to calm him down.”

“Or cloud his memory even more,” Jack snapped. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Arthur shrugged dismissively. “I’ve got all the information I need.”

Jack raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Is that so?” Gwen was leaning against the fence watching the two men with amusement and Claire caught her eye. Gwen smiled knowingly at her and Claire fought to bite down a snigger. Ianto, bored with the posturing, had moved off with his Rift scanner, deciding to do something useful with his time.

“Yes,” Arthur said firmly. He turned and pointed up at the CCTV camera mounted on a post in the corner of the pub garden, directed straight at the barmaid's remains.

“Ianto,” Jack barked, and Ianto looked up from his PDA. “I need those tapes,” he told him, gesturing at the camera.

“Yes sir.” Ianto pocketed the PDA and headed back into the bar.

“Ok, your people can leave now,” Jack told Arthur, turning away from him dismissively.

“Excuse me?” Arthur choked.

“I think Dr Turner should stay,” Gwen suggested quietly but convincingly. “We could do with her medical skills.”

Jack looked at Gwen for a moment, then back at Claire, apparently in the midst of deep and painful thought. “Ok,” he nodded eventually. “Dr Turner stays, the rest can go.”

Arthur shook his head. “You don’t have that authority,” he asserted. “This is my case.”

“Not anymore.” Jack turned away, putting an end to the conversation. “Gwen, Dr Turner — go fetch a body bag from the SUV and get this into it.” He pointed the mangled remains. “I want to meet your witness please Detective Robinson.”

“Find him yourself,” Arthur shot back. “It’s not my case.” He stalked away from them. “Come on everyone, we’re moving out,” he called loudly. “ _Torchwood_ are taking over.”

The assembled police personnel seemed relieved to be getting home and eagerly disappeared after Arthur into the bar. Gwen beckoned that Claire should accompany her and they followed after the retreating police.

“Oh by the way,” Jack called after them. “We’ve got some passengers in the SUV — they might be a little lively.”

Gwen merely lifted an eyebrow in response and gave a minute shake of her head. Jack bent down to take a closer look at the pile of skin and clothes. There was something familiar about this; something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He stared at the skin in front of him, trying to clear his mind and remember what it was that was niggling at the back of his mind.

“They said you wanted to see me?”

Jack was startled from his reverie by the voice behind him. He stood up and saw a pale young man standing uncomfortably in the middle of the garden, hands in his pockets, looking anywhere but at the remains. Jack fixed him with a dazzling grin.

“I don’t know who ‘they’ are,” he said. “But they seem to know me very well.”

Neil’s eyebrows knitted even further down over his eyes in confusion. For some reason, he seemed to be very attractive to everyone tonight and he wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing, given the way things had worked out. He just stood awkwardly and stared at the man in the long military coat.

“And you are..?” Jack prompted.

“Neil Maloney.” He swallowed. “I was with…” He pointed to the skin and tried not to vomit. The brandy that the police sergeant had bought him was making his head ache and his legs shake.

“Ah, the witness.” Jack nodded and took a few steps up the garden, moving to Neil’s other side so that he was forced to turn around and have his back to the body. He realised that he was unlikely to get much sense out of the young man if he had to look at the remains whilst they spoke. “What can you tell me?”

“The same as what I told everyone else,” Neil mumbled. “We were kissing, she started choking, and then this mosquito thing burst out of her skin.”

“How big was it?”

Neil shrugged. “About five foot, give or take.”

“Same height as the barmaid?”

Neil nodded. “Roughly.”

“Which way did it fly off?”

Neil turned and pointed over his shoulder, up over the high fence behind him. “That way.”

“Did you notice anything unusual about her behaviour, before you came out here with her?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Neil explained. “I’d only just met her tonight. I didn’t even know her name ‘til after.”

“Right.” Jack nodded, understanding. “Can you remember if she had any bites on her? Insect bites?”

Neil screwed up his face as he thought back. He tried to see her face, smiling at him over the bar, leaning forward to whisper in his ear. He closed his eyes. And there, yes — on her neck. “Yes,” he announced. “She had a red lump, on her neck.” He tapped the side of his neck to demonstrate. “It was bleeding a bit, I guess maybe she’d been scratching it.”

“Great, that’s brilliant.” Jack beamed at him. “Thank you.”

“Is that all?” Neil asked. “Can I go home now?”

“Yes, you can.” Jack smiled again. “We may be back in touch.”

“Thanks.” Neil hurried towards the steps up to the decking before the man could change his mind and ask him to stay. He passed the pathologist and another dark-haired woman coming down the steps with a body bag. He didn’t even make eye contact as he pushed his way past them into the bar.

Gwen and Claire carried the body bag down to the end of the garden and Gwen pulled on a pair of gloves to help Claire transfer the remains of the body into it. Jack stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, watching them.

“Thanks for the help,” Gwen grumbled, sarcastically.

“You’re welcome,” Jack shot back with a grin. He stepped around the body and stood facing the fence. The barbed-wire atop of the fence was a few inches above his head. He curled his fingers over the top, wedged the toes of his boots on the horizontal slats and pulled himself up so he could see over the top. There was nothing to see but back gardens and loading bays. Behind him, Gwen and Claire zipped up the body bag and hefted it off towards the pub.

-*-

The young barman was just on his way out of the door when Ianto stopped him. His straight dark hair was parted and his fringe hung low over one eye. His black polo shirt with the bar’s logo on the left breast was a size too small and he wore a sparkly studded belt which rested on his slim hips and was clearly not intended to hold up the skinny jeans he was wearing. He was just wrapping a thin scarf around his neck. Ianto felt like a giant beside him as he got out his notebook and flipped it open to a blank page.

“You worked with the victim?” he began.

“Millie?” the barman enquired and Ianto nodded in confirmation. “Aye,” he said. “That’s right.”

“And your name is?”

“Owain,” he said. “Owain Thomas.”

“What can you tell me about the victim?” Ianto asked, ignoring that jolt that the name sent down through him. He focused on the fact that this Owain was nothing like their Owen. Had been. Ianto hated the past tense. “How long had you known her?” Right now, he needed to find out everything could about the life of Millie Jenkins. They couldn’t rule out the possibility that she always had been an alien, undercover as human until this evening. They couldn’t really rule out anything.

Owain thought about this. “I’ve worked here eight months. She’d been here for two before that.”

“And what was she like?”

“Well…” Owain seemed a little uncomfortable, as though he was reluctant to say what was on his mind but he was going to go ahead and say it anyway. “It might make me sound like a bitch because I did like Millie, she was a laugh and worked hard, but she did get through a lot of men, know what I mean?” Ianto nodded that he did. “I’m not saying she was a slut, but…” He shrugged. “Got laid more than I do.”

“She didn’t have a boyfriend then?”

Owain shook his head. “Did have, but she dumped him. Said he was too clingy.”

“How long ago?”

Owain thought about this. “Couple of months?”

“Name?”

“Dave something I think.”

Ianto nodded as he noted it down. “And tonight?” he asked. “Did you notice anything unusual about her behaviour?”

Owain shook his head. “Not really. She was hot and pissed off, but then we all were.” He thought back. “Although, her skin was looking awful.”

Ianto tilted his head enquiringly. “In what way?”

“It was really dry - flaky,” he explained. “I only noticed ‘cause she normally had such good skin.”

“Anything else?” Ianto asked as he scribbled in his notebook, in shorthand; a skill he’d taught himself when he left university in the hope that it might bolster his CV.

Owain shook his head again. “No, sorry.”

“Alright, thanks.” Ianto snapped the notebook shut. “That’s great.”

“No worries.” Owain gave him a brief smile and headed for the door, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and dialling a number, putting it up to his ear as he barged his way out into the street. As Ianto went in search of the manager, Gwen and the pathologist hefted the body bag past behind him.

He found the manager sitting in shock in a small office behind the bar. Ianto cleared his throat quietly and the manager looked up. He was an overweight man in his early forties, with thinning dark hair and two chins rolling down over the open neck of his black shirt which was flecked with white specks of dandruff.

“Hi.” Ianto smiled. “I’m with the…” He waved his hand ambiguously to avoid naming who he was actually with.

“Oh right.” The manager shifted into a more upright position. “Rob Kelly, manager.”

“I’m actually just after the CCTV footage from the garden,” Ianto explained, pointing to the television screen on the desk in the office. The screen was split into four and on one he could see Jack in the beer garden.

“Oh right.” Rob leant forward and tapped at the keys on his keyboard. A few seconds later the computer spat out a disc. He took it out, put it into a case and labelled it with an indelible marker. He plucked out a couple more discs from a rack on the wall and handed them to Ianto. “Should be on one of those,” he told him. “Haven’t had a chance to check them yet.”

“That’s great,” Ianto said. “Mind if I take a little look around the bar?”

Rob shrugged. “Sure. Though I don’t know what you’ll find.”

“Nor do I.” Ianto pushed his way out of the office and consulted the screen on his PDA. It was picking up another signal, weaker than the one which had led them to the garden, but a signal nevertheless. It was leading him behind the bar, where Millie had been working. That would back up the theory that she was an alien, though she seemed to have a fairly solid background story, so if she was, she must have come through months ago, and the traces of Rift matter on her wouldn’t be this strong. Rob had followed Ianto out of the office and was peering suspiciously over his shoulder at the PDA.

“Do you know where Millie worked before here?” Ianto asked, turning his torso so Rob couldn’t see the screen.

“One of those big shoe shop chains,” Rob told him. “And nights at Oceania.”

“You got references?”

“Of course.”

An undercover alien with a penchant for bar work? Perhaps not, but then again, stranger things had happened. Far stranger. The PDA blipped as Ianto walked along behind the bar and he suddenly realised what it was that was playing havoc with the readings. He raised the scanner and wafted it in front of the fly trap, which was overflowing. He pointed to it and turned to Rob.

“Mind if I take a sample?”

Rob shook his head. “No, go ahead. Bloody thing needs emptying anyway.”

Ianto carefully wiped the surface and climbed up onto it. He switched off the fly trap, pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and scooped several handfuls into a plastic bag which he removed from his pocket. Behind him, Gwen and the pathologist returned from the pub garden, hefting a now full body bag.

Rob watched him anxiously. “Is there a problem?” he asked. “I won’t have to close, will I?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” Ianto assured him cheerfully as he filled the bag to the brim and turned to get down.

Jack clumped into the room, carrying a large case, and raised an amused eyebrow when he saw Ianto kneeling on the bar. “Considering a new career as a table dancer Ianto?” he enquired with a leer.

“Just collecting evidence sir,” Ianto explained, holding up the bag.

“Good work,” Jack said. “Let’s go.”

Ianto climbed down from the surface, adjusted his sleeves and added the bag of the flies to the stack of CCTV DVDs. He gave Rob a polite smile and followed Jack out of the bar.


	7. Chapter 7

Claire barely said a word on the drive back to the Hub. Gwen had tried to strike up conversations as she tailed the SUV through the streets of Cardiff, but only got nervous one-word replies. She supposed in Claire’s position she might be nervous too. Being whisked off by an unknown organisation might tend to make you a little wary. But in Claire’s position, Gwen would have been firing off a barrage of questions instead of sitting meekly with her hands tucked under her thighs, staring wide-eyed out of the window as though it might be her last glimpse of the outside world.

When she pulled up beside the SUV in the car park, Jack and Ianto were bickering about something as they unloaded the body bag. Gwen smirked as she imagined them arguing over changing the toilet roll or leaving the milk out, which were the source of most of her nitpicking with Rhys. (Rhys’ list of complaints about her behaviour was far longer and the catalyst for far bigger arguments, but he rarely aired his grievances so mostly she let the domestic disputes slide.) As it turned out, Jack and Ianto weren’t arguing about domestic issues but about which room in the Hub would be suitable to house their newly acquired pets. Gwen supposed that was about as domestic as they got.

Gwen held the door back for the two men to heft the body bag inside. Claire hovered uncertainly in the car park, glancing over her shoulder, probably deciding whether or not to make a last bid for freedom.

“It’s ok,” Gwen assured her gently. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“No, sorry.” Claire gave her a weak smile. “It’s just...all a bit new.”

Gwen smiled back. “You get used to it.”

Claire nodded and followed Gwen into the dank passageway which led through the foundations of the Plass into the main Hub. Up ahead of them, Jack and Ianto had stopped by the security door and Jack was making some sort of warning gesture with his free hand, which made him look like he was flapping at imaginary flames. Ianto was studying the monitor in the wall.

“There’s someone here,” Ianto hissed, when they were close enough.

For a moment, Gwen panicked and then remembered. “Ah yes,” she confessed. “I was going to tell you — it’s Rhys.”

“Rhys?” Jack and Ianto enquired in tandem.

“Yes, Rhys,” she repeated. “Remember him?”

“All too well,” Jack assured her as Ianto punched his security code into the keypad beside the door. It grated open and they trooped through. “Why the hell did you leave Rhys here by himself?” Jack asked, outraged.

“He was just watching the football,” Gwen defended him, irked by Jack’s automatic assumption that Rhys was not to be trusted with Jack’s toys.

“What was he doing here anyway?” Jack snapped as they emerged into the workstation area. “Or can he just not bear to be without you?”

Ianto stifled a snorted laugh. Gwen looked up and could see Rhys in the boardroom with his back to them, feet up on the table as he watched the television. “There were these things in our flat,” she explained. “He helped me bring them in.”

Ianto raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Things?”

Gwen waved her hand dismissively. “I’ll explain in a bit.”

They suddenly stopped and remembered Claire. She was standing, chewing her lip, and staring up at the cavernous ceiling. The authorities had switched on the water tower tonight for atmosphere and it cascaded down the shimmering metal. Claire’s eyes roamed over the levels of gantries, the glass walls of the offices, the Rift manipulator, the swirling screensavers on the server monitors, the battered sofa and the tube station tiling. Gwen felt as though she could be watching herself, the first time she entered the Hub. Only Claire wasn’t carrying pizza.

“Yeah, sorry,” Jack said as he and Ianto brushed past Claire on their way down to the autopsy bay. “Welcome to Torchwood, big underground base, no time to be awestruck, work to do.”

Gwen thought he was being unnecessarily harsh but she also knew that Jack was very resistant to anyone taking Tosh and Owen’s places. He was a hard man to fathom out sometimes. So hard and yet so apparently sentimental. She missed them too, and knew that no one would ever replace them in her heart, even if they replaced them in the team. She knew that Jack must feel that too, but whenever she tried to broach the subject with him he just clammed up or threw her off the scent with a cheeky quip. She’d tried talking to Ianto about it too, but their conversations on the topic were largely silent, the long pauses interspersed with such vague assertions that she always came away not really knowing what they had discussed or agreed on.

Perhaps it was too soon. Perhaps it would always be too soon, for a man who couldn’t die. But they needed a medical professional. Jack had a vague background in biology and medicine; some alien, but, by his own admission, mostly centred on the reproductive system. Gwen had the knowledge she had gained, some official and some unofficial, during her days in the police. Ianto had a basic first aid course, an encyclopaedic memory and an absolute fear of cutting up a dead body. Gwen found it strange that whilst he had no trouble moving dead bodies around and manipulating crime scenes, when it came to jabbing a needle into a corpse or cutting it up with a scalpel, he turned white as a sheet.

Jack and Ianto dumped the body bag on the table and Gwen gestured that Claire should follow her down the steps. She still hadn’t said a word. Gwen wondered what it was that she was finding most bizarre. Jack dusted off his hands on the back of his coat and turned to face them. Ianto had already retreated to safe distance.

“Ok Dr Turner, I need you to find out everything you can about what happened to this girl tonight,” Jack told her. He gestured around at the array of medical equipment lined up around the autopsy bay. “We have some pretty advanced technology here. Please use it. Any questions, ask Gwen. Ok?”

Claire nodded. “Yep.”

“Good.” Jack turned and began to unzip the body bag.

“Coffee anyone?” Ianto offered, already halfway up the stairs.

Jack responded by simply raising an arm, keeping his back to Ianto as he leant over the autopsy table.

“Yes please,” Gwen said.

“Claire?”

“Uh, yes, please.” She was hovering on the other side of the table to Jack. The heat wasn’t doing anything for the remains and Gwen had to stop herself gagging when Jack pulled the body bag open.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Milk, no sugar, thank you.”

Ianto nodded and disappeared. Jack straightened up and took a step away from the table. He gestured to the corpse and looked up at Claire. “Dr Turner, your patient.” He chuckled at his own joke and Claire gave a nervous laugh in response. “I’ll leave you to it,” Jack said, heading for the stairs. “Rhys can make himself useful and help me get those Skyrones out of the SUV.”

Jack bounded up the stairs, shedding his coat as he went, and left Gwen and Claire alone with the body. Claire put her hands on her hips, blew out her cheeks and surveyed the equipment that Jack had pointed out. She turned back to Gwen with an expression of bewilderment. “So what does all this stuff do?”

-*-

When Jack pushed open the door to the boardroom, Rhys had his socked feet up on the table and was guffawing loudly at some hospital-set comedy show. He was oblivious to the fact that he was being watched until Jack cleared his throat loudly.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Rhys jumped violently and hastily swung his feet off the table, turning round to face Jack. “I was just looking after the moths,” he explained, pointing the box of jars on the table.

Beside the box was an empty bottle of Owen’s beer. Owen brought them in from his flat after he died the first time and there were still a couple of bottles left. They had been sitting in the fridge for the last few months since neither Gwen nor Ianto could bring themselves to drink them. They could probably do with drinking, Jack decided.

“I’ll look at them later,” Jack told Rhys. “I need a hand.”

“Ok.”

Rhys shoved his feet into his trainers and followed Jack down to the car park in awkward silence. Jack realised that he hadn’t really spent much time alone with Rhys. There had always been at least one other person to bounce conversation off. Ianto would make small talk; possibly about Rhys’ job, which Jack knew had something to do with lorries. Jack didn’t do small talk. The only question he could think of right now was ‘is Gwen into kinky stuff?’ and he didn’t think that would go down too well as an opener. So instead he resorted to silence.

He rested his end of the cage on his raised knee as he slammed the boot down and locked the SUV. The noise echoed around the empty car park, deserted at this time of night. Rhys peered into the cage, brows furrowed, as Jack picked it up and headed for the door. Jack stared up into the hidden security camera and five seconds later the door unlocked.

“What are they?” Rhys asked when they were safely in the corridor.

“Skyrones,” Jack told him. “From another galaxy, but related to dragonflies. Theory goes, some dragonfly larvae ended up on a spaceship when the human empire expanded. Not sure I buy into it, but I guess it has a ring of truth.”

Rhys made a choking sound in his throat. “Human empire?” he repeated.

Jack wondered why Rhys could accept alien dragonflies appearing in rural South Wales but the idea of the human race heading off into the universe in spaceships seemed completely preposterous. “Sure." He shrugged as nonchalantly as possible when carrying a large cage. “Future’s gonna be great for you guys.”

Rhys snorted. “You talk like you’re not one of us.”

Jack punched in the code and barged through the security door with his shoulder. “Maybe I’m not.”

Rhys snorted again but obviously decided not to pursue that line of questioning. They lapsed back into mutually agreeable silence as they headed to the lower levels, to the room that Ianto had designated for their containment. Jack had wanted to let them free in the hothouse, but Ianto had argued against it on account of the mess and possible damage to Owen’s plants, which he hadn’t got round to cataloguing yet. He was strangely protective of those plants. Jack had let it go because there were more important issues at stake and everyone had their own way of grieving.

The room was an empty, high-ceilinged storage room. There were several along this corridor but most were full of assorted junk, some alien, some not. Jack knew that in one of them was an expensive case of Moet & Chandon Champagne from the 1920s but he was damned if he could find it. Ianto had started going through the first room nearly a year ago now and hadn’t got much further than the first few feet beyond the door. But for some reason, this room and its immediate neighbour had been left empty. Maybe they had been left ready to receive the next century’s worth of junk.

Three single light bulbs hung on long cords from the ceiling. The concrete floor was covered in a layer of dust and there were cobwebs looping across the high arch of the ceiling. The render in the brick wall was crumbling. Otherwise the room was empty. Jack and Rhys lowered the cage to the floor and Jack glanced over his shoulder.

“Block off the door,” he instructed.

Rhys moved and stood in the doorway. Jack reached down and unclipped the cage door. The Skyrones, still dazed and confused, lingered uncertainly, apparently unaware that they could now leave the cage.

“Come on,” Jack coaxed, tickling the end of a thorax through the bars. “You can come out now.”

One by one, the Skyrones staggered out of the cage, balancing on unsteady legs and trying to fly with uncooperative wings. Jack stood up and retreated to the doorway with Rhys. For a moment, they watched the creatures drowsily flitting about.

“What do they eat?” Rhys asked.

Jack sucked in a breath through his nostrils. “Mosquitoes, amongst other things,” he mused. Then a grin spread across his face. He knew he shouldn’t be this petty but he somehow couldn’t help it. He turned to Rhys, still grinning. “They eat all kinds of insects,” he told him. “And the Hub’s full of creepy-crawlies.” He clapped a friendly hand on Rhys’ shoulder and propelled him out of the door, shutting it behind them.

Rhys narrowed his eyes and glared at Jack. “You want me to go round picking up bugs?”

Jack feigned gratefulness. “Would you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Rhys grumbled.

“You’re part of the team now,” Jack told him with mock earnest. He knew that Ianto tried to keep the Hub as clean as possible, but they’d been stretched very thinly lately and other things had taken priority. Plus, the Hub was very large. Rhys could be here for hours. “Have fun.” He waltzed away in a swish of coat and heard Rhys sigh irritably behind him.


	8. Chapter 8

Claire watched the dancing pink and purple lights on the machine with fascination as she ran the scanner over the skin. She had steeled herself and laid it out in an approximately human shape on the table before separating skin from clothes, which were now in a bundle on a tray to one side, waiting for further analysis. The scanner itself resembled a large metal spoon and turned on in response to body heat. It was connected to a small black box with the aforementioned pink and purple lights and when she had completed the scan it would send the results of the analysis to a screen on the side. Gwen had only been able to describe the machine as a ‘dead-body-scanner-thing’ but she had a good grasp of how it worked.

It was madness. Utter madness. The equipment in this truly bizarre world was like something out of a futuristic science fiction film; only it wasn’t fiction - it was real. The scanner worked. This was beyond anything she had ever dreamed of. Gwen was leaning back against a respirator, watching carefully. Claire finished up the right leg and set the scanner down on the side.

“Done,” she announced. She pointed at the black box. “How long does it take?”

“Not long,” Gwen said, stirring herself and going over to the monitor. She tapped a few keys as Ianto appeared with a tray.

“Coffee,” he announced with a polite smile as he came down the steps. Claire noted that he’d changed into a pristine clean suit and marvelled that a man should own more than one suit.

Gwen turned and took her coffee off the tray without taking her eyes from the screen in front of her. “Thanks Ianto.”

Ianto balanced the tray on one hand and handed Claire’s mug to her. “Hope it’s not too strong.” He smiled again.

Nice smile, lovely accent, Claire thought as she smiled back and accepted the coffee. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” He tucked the tray under his arm and disappeared briskly and quietly up the stairs and out of sight.

“Results are in,” Gwen told her. “It’s gobbledegook to me, but I expect you’ll be able to make sense of it.”

She stood and to one side and Claire put down her coffee and took her place in front of the screen. She gaped when she read what was on there. The little black box had produced a full bloodwork, DNA and biochemical analysis in the space of less than a minute. This thing could revolutionise pathology.

Claire gestured to the results on the screen and turned to Gwen. “This is just...” She shook her head, lost for words.

“Nifty?” Gwen suggested, smiling gleefully, as though she couldn’t believe she worked with this stuff either.

“Yeah,” Claire agreed. “It’s done half my job already.”

“I know.”

“Best get on with the other half then.” Claire turned around stood facing the remains. She glanced down at the tray of instruments. Then she looked back at Gwen. “Not quite sure where to start,” she confessed. “Most of the other bodies I’ve worked with have had...other bits.” Bones and muscles and organs and things which defined them as human. Clues and evidence. This was going to be difficult. She looked back up at Gwen hopefully. “Can I have a pad and pen?”

Gwen disappeared and reappeared with a spiral pad and a biro. Claire decided to start with the neck as Jack had suggested. Sure enough there was a puncture mark; a fading contusion on the left side of the neck. She pulled back the flap of skin and examined the reverse of the wound. It hadn’t come all the way through and she’d have to check but from the positioning she guessed that the bite had punctured one of the main arteries. “Carrying the infection straight to the brain,” she murmured, jotting down her observation. She took a swab from the entry point of the wound. “Is there a microscope?” she asked Gwen.

“Yep.” Gwen opened a cupboard and heaved out a microscope which, surprisingly enough, looked like a microscope.

Claire smeared the swab onto a slide and slid it under the lens. Now she was working, doing what she knew best, she had completely forgotten her earlier nerves. And Gwen seemed helpful and encouraging which was more than she could say for her boss. She put her eye to the microscope and immediately shot back up again. “Well, that’s powerful,” she observed flatly.

“Yeah,” Gwen agreed. “Jack likes to use it to look at his swimmers.”

“His swimmers?” Claire queried.

“His sperm,” Gwen clarified, with a look which suggested that though she disapproved, it was to be expected of Jack. “I think it amuses him.”

“Right.” Claire couldn’t quite equate the swaggering, hard-nosed Captain with a man who found it amusing to use a state-of-the-art, highly powerful microscope to examine his sperm and admit it to his colleagues. Then again, they did seem to have a strange working dynamic here. Claire put her eye back to the microscope. As far she could see there was nothing but skin cells and healthy human blood.

She’d performed an autopsy on an HIV positive victim once and wondered if her hunch about the viral infection would be proved right. Of course, since they were talking about aliens here, all her prior knowledge could be rendered defunct. What was it the Captain had said about applying pre-existing knowledge and universal laws of nature when they were loading the body bag into their SUV, back at the bar? She really should have been listening, but she’d been worrying about how to get a message to Tim so he’d be able to expose her story if this all turned out to be a government conspiracy and she was never seen again. And there was something about the Captain’s eyes that unnerved her.

“Doesn’t it make you nervous?” she began curiously, pausing in her work and looking at Gwen. “Working with Jack?” She kept her voice down because she suspected he was the kind of man to catch you unawares.

“Jack?” Gwen seemed amused by this though. “Nah.” She shook her head. “Why? Does he make you nervous?”

Claire shrugged. “A little.” She picked up a scalpel from the tray of instruments.

“You don’t need to worry about Jack,” Gwen assured her. She perched up on the surface, legs crossed at the ankles, Converses swinging idly back and forth. “He’s a pussy cat really.”

Claire raised an eyebrow as she pushed a pin through the bite and laid out the skin of the neck, inner side facing up. “I find that very hard to believe.”

“Well, unless you hurt his friends,” Gwen conceded. “Then you’d better watch out.”

“Really?” Claire ran the scalpel up the line of the artery.

“Yeah.” Gwen’s heels stopped swinging as she thought about this. “Your best bet is to become his friend — then he’ll do anything for you.”

Claire’s response was cut off by a tinny trumpet fanfare emanating from her handbag. Oh God. How did they even have signal down here? “Sorry,” she apologised hastily, tearing off her gloves and rushing over to her bag. She hunted frantically for her phone and finally managed to silence the Star Wars theme. “My boyfriend,” she explained apologetically. “Probably just wondering when I’ll be home.”

“You should call him back,” Gwen told her earnestly. “Hanging up on your boyfriend only leads to trouble, believe me.”

“Oh.” Claire looked at the phone in her hand. It bleeped. Tim had left a message.

“But don’t mention Torchwood,” Gwen added. “Not just yet.”

“Ok.” Claire nodded and speed-dialled Tim’s number, turning away as she listened to it ringing on the other end. He picked up after two rings.

“Hey.” His voice was comforting and familiar in this strange place. “You still at work?”

“Yeah, sorry. Still at the lab.” She chewed her lip. Lying to Tim did not come easy. Lying to her parents — news management — was easy. Lying to friends about how much she loved their new houses and/or children was easy. Lying to colleagues about why she couldn’t make their birthday drinks was easy. But she and Tim had agreed that lying to each other was only acceptable when planning surprises. “Up to my elbows in dead body.”

She could hear the face he was pulling. “Ugh. Lovely.”

“Could be a long night,” she told him. “Don’t wait up.”

“Ok.” The guilt burned at how readily he accepted it. “I’ll see you in the morning, unless you fall over something on your way in and wake me up again.”

She forced casual lightness into her voice and was sure he would hear it. “Shut up you, I’ll see you later.”

He laughed, oblivious. “Bye.”

She hung up and slid the phone back into her back, reaching for a fresh pair of gloves and feeling dirty. She wiped a swab up the length of the opened artery and put it into a bag.

“What’s his name?” Gwen asked.

“Tim,” Claire said as she labelled the bag.

“Been together long?”

“Nine years,” Claire revealed as she began her methodical investigation of the skin, starting at the head end and working her way down, observing everything, gathering as much detail as possible, making notes as she went. “Since Uni.”

“What does he do?”

Claire wondered if Gwen was just curious or if she had some hidden agenda. There was something about Gwen that made her want to open up and she wasn’t sure why. “He used to work for the Inland Revenue,” Claire told her. “He resigned six months ago to pursue his ‘dream’.” Her tone of voice put the word in inverted commas. “Only trouble is,” she continued. “He probably should have had the dream before he left his job. Now he’s just sitting around on the sofa waiting for his dream to come to him.” She noted down the number of teeth left in the victim’s mouth. “I told him that Martin Luther King had the dream before he made the speech. It wasn’t “I wish I had a dream”, you know?” Gwen smiled and Claire shrugged. “I know he was wasted at the Inland Revenue, but our mortgage payments would look a lot healthier if he could find something soon.” It felt strange, telling all this to a stranger, considering she hadn’t really talked to anyone about it before. It felt a little like a betrayal because she didn’t really mind — she’d rather they were poor and happy than rich and unfulfilled. Her wages certainly weren’t much to write home about, considering how long she’d had to train and the size of her student debt.

She paused halfway down the left arm and straightened up. “Perhaps he’s angling to be a stay-at-home-dad,” she mused. “I’d be fine with that, ‘cause I don’t want to give up my job, but it’ll have to be a long way in the future.”

“I know that feeling,” Gwen agreed. “Tim sounds a lot like Rhys, my husband.”

“What’s it like?” Claire asked, as she plucked the fake nails off the fingers of the left hand. “Being married?” She and Tim had occasionally discussed marriage, but neither of them were religious and it would just seem like a lot of fuss to formalise something they already knew existed. They might make it down the registry office on these days and drag a few strangers off the street as witnesses. And anyway, with her hips, Claire was certain she’d look like a giant meringue whatever style wedding dress she chose.

“Best thing I ever did,” Gwen assured her with a dopey, faraway smile. “When I’ve had the shittiest day ever here, I know it’s all ok, because I have Rhys to go home to.” She sighed, contentedly. “I mean, I know if we weren’t married, he’d still be there. It’s just... Knowing he’s my husband, that I’m his wife — it makes me feel safe, you know?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Claire smiled back. She was starting to like Gwen Cooper and this mad place she worked in. She bent her head and went back to examining the body in front of her.

-*-

Ianto was halfway through composing his first paragraph when Jack emerged from the lower levels. He had his hands in his pockets and sauntered over looking very pleased with himself. Ianto wasn’t sure if he wanted to know why. He pointed to the mug of coffee on the side.

“That’s yours.”

“Thanks.” Jack picked it up and cradled it with both hands against his stomach as he leant back against the desk beside Ianto.

Ianto paused typing, flexed his fingers and leant back in his seat. “Where’s Rhys?” he asked.

Jack smirked. “Tidying up.”

“Tidying up?” Ianto repeated dubiously.

Jack chuckled. “He’s scouring the lower levels for bugs to feed to the Skyrones,” he explained.

Ianto shook his head as he went back to his screen. “You’re a petty bastard Jack Harkness.”

Jack just laughed in response. He nodded to Ianto’s screen. “What are you doing?”

“Fake report about the murder,” Ianto explained. He was composing an article that would run in the morning’s papers. It described the barmaid’s death as a brutal murder, the body mutilated. He’d left in enough truth in the details for it seem believable to anyone who had been there. It was an art form and he was the best at it.

“Good work.” Jack let go of his coffee with one hand and absentmindedly prodded the completed Rubix cube on Ianto’s desk. “Did you get anything from talking to her colleagues?”

“Sort of.” He paused with his hands hovering over his keyboard. “She’d been working there about eight months, had references from a couple of other places before that, so she has a background. I’ll check it out just to make sure.”

“Right.” Jack bent his head and blew on his coffee. “Anything else?”

“The barman,” Ianto told him. “He said he’d noticed that Millie’s skin was unusually dry and flaky tonight.”

“Hm.” Jack brows furrowed as he stared at the floor, apparently deep in thought.

“Could be nothing, but...” Ianto trailed off.

“It could be something,” Jack finished, nodding. “Where are those security tapes?”

Fired with sudden inspiration, Ianto’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Without taking his eyes from the screen, he reached over and tapped the stack of DVDs.

“Thanks.” Jack picked them up and headed off in the direction of his office with his coffee.

-*-

Gwen could tell that Claire was nervous as she prepared to present the findings of her autopsy. Jack was leaning forward with his elbows resting on the railings above, looming over them as they stood in the autopsy bay. Ianto was standing beside him with his hands in his pockets, his face an unreadable mask. Gwen nodded to Claire that she should begin and she cleared her throat like a nervous schoolgirl about to give an answer to a particularly odious teacher.

“Well,” Claire began. “Millie Jenkins was almost definitely infected by some sort of virus.”

“Almost definitely?” Jack repeated sceptically.

“Well, um, definitely I suppose,” Claire stuttered, colouring under Jack’s critical gaze. “I’ve just never seen a virus that acts in this way before.” She turned and gestured to the body. “I’m ninety-nine percent certain that the virus was carried by the insect which bit the neck of the victim.” She cleared her throat again. “It’s a blood-borne, not an airborne, virus and from the analysis it looks like it caused her cells to mutate.” Her voice became steadier and more assured. “If I were to offer a professional opinion,” she said. “Based on the evidence I have, I’d say that the skin and other matter left behind were used as a sort of chrysalis, but without any further evidence, I can’t really say more.”

Jack made no response and appeared to be waiting for something further. Gwen wondered if he’d been this hard on Owen on his first day. Claire had come up with far more useful results than either she or Jack could have done in a couple of hours. She at least had the advantage of starting with a comprehensive knowledge of how the human body _should_ behave. Claire sighed and looked over at Gwen for support. Gwen gave her an encouraging smile.

“Pussy cat,” she mouthed.

Claire bit her lip to cover a smirk. She tilted her head and met Jack’s stare defiantly. “I can’t isolate a sample of the virus because as far as I can tell the skin doesn’t have any traces of the live virus on it.”

Jack straightened up and wrapped his fingers around the top rail, locking his elbows and bracing himself against it. He had his sleeves rolled up and the muscles of his smooth forearms were stretched taut. Gwen had a thing about Jack’s arms. Always had done. She glanced across and caught Ianto staring at them too. Pervert.

“So, nothing useful then?” Jack concluded dismissively.

Gwen could throttle him, she really could. “Jack,” she snapped. “She did her best.”

Jack let go of the rail and shrugged. “I’m just stating the facts, as presented to me,” he claimed brusquely. “We got most of that from the interviews and the CCTV footage.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and wandered into the workstation area. Ianto turned to Gwen with an ‘I dunno’ shrug and followed Jack. Gwen sprinted up the steps after them. Down in the autopsy bay, Claire stripped off the lab coat they’d found for her, which was several sizes too small, and shouldered her handbag, trailing slowly in Gwen’s wake.

“But it’s useful though, isn’t it?” Gwen persisted, manoeuvring herself around in front of Jack to halt his progress across the Hub. “Having the medical evidence to back it up?”

Jack shrugged again. “Sure.” He shot a sideways glance at Rhys who had fallen asleep on the sofa with his head back, mouth open, snoring loudly. Jack arched an eyebrow. “Sexy.”

“Shut up,” Gwen responded tetchily. “It’s only ‘cause he had a few beers with the game.”

“You snore,” Ianto interjected, looking at Jack.

“I do not,” Jack protested indignantly and Gwen marvelled at how one well-placed remark could bring Jack down from his status of enigmatic leader.

“How would you know?” Ianto reminded him, voice deadpan, eyes teasing. He got away with that far more often these days Gwen had noticed. He looked at Rhys. “Maybe he’s got a point - it is gone two.”

“Time to call it a night,” Gwen agreed. She walked over to the sofa and gently shook Rhys’ shoulder.

“Wh..?” Rhys took a loud, snuffling breath and his eyes flew open. He looked guiltily at his audience and hastily wiped the drool from around his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Come on.” Gwen tugged at his elbow. “We’re going home.”

“Finally.” Rhys hauled himself to his feet and yawned loudly.

“My car’s still at the bar,” Claire reminded them anxiously. She probably thought they were planning to keep her there.

“I’ll drop you there on my way home,” Ianto offered, grabbing his keys from his desk.

“Thank you.” Claire smiled at him and Ianto smiled back. Gwen knew that the Car-Bar wasn’t on Ianto’s way home — if anything it was a long way in the opposite direction — but that was the sort of man that Ianto was.

Jack stepped forward and offered Claire his hand. “Thank you for your help tonight,” he told her as she shook it. “I’m sorry if I’ve seemed a little hard on you.”

“That’s ok,” Claire assured him.

Gwen rolled her eyes. She was sure it wasn’t necessary for Jack’s handshake to linger that long and she saw Claire’s expression shift. She was looking at Jack the way that Gwen used to look at him — like she’d follow him to the end of the Earth if he smiled and said she was pretty. Jack eventually pulled his hand back and Claire blushed as Ianto ushered her towards the door. He turned and looked at Jack. Gwen couldn’t read the look but both men seemed to reach an agreement by it because Ianto turned without a word and lead Claire out of the cog door.

“Night Jack,” Gwen said.

“Night,” Jack responded. Gwen turned and saw him disappear into the confines of his office as she shepherded Rhys out of the door.

-*-

The Plass was silent. The waterfront bars and restaurants were long since shut and any late night revellers would have to head back into town. As he stood on the gently sloping roof of the Millennium centre, Jack could hear the soft movement of the water in the bay but otherwise the night was still. The water tower had been switched off now and the whole area was completely deserted.

Jack stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a deep breath through his nostrils, narrowing his eyes as he stared out to the point where the black sea met the inky night sky, beyond the barrage, out in the channel. The night was hazy and Jack couldn’t see all the way to England tonight. He was still thinking about what he’d seen earlier. He couldn’t shake the image of the skin, split open; certain that he’d seen it somewhere before.

It was frustrating him that he couldn’t remember when. His memories were so muddled and faded now. Two thousand years underground tended to do that to the mind. At that thought, Jack lifted a hand to his face - an involuntary reaction - panic setting his nerves jangling, as he reassured himself that he could move his arms and that his face wasn’t covered in earth. He gulped a deep breath, filling his lungs and puffing out a chest that had been crushed for so long. Most of the time he managed to cope, the way he’d always coped, but sometimes he was caught off guard and could taste the earth on his tongue or feel the lead weight pinning down his limbs.

Jack shook his head and tried to re-focus his thoughts. In his mind, he caught a glimpse of a bright light but it slithered away before he could catch the memory. He sighed again, despondently. Oh Gray, he thought. What have you done to me?

No. He refused to go down that road. Jack had spent a considerable portion of his long life avoiding thoughts he didn’t want to think. He dragged his mind back to the matter in hand. Mosquitoes. Skyrones. Moths. Was there a link?

Suddenly, he heard a loud humming behind his left ear. He swayed back to avoid the incoming fly which buzzed past a few inches from his face. Jack frowned as he watched it disappear off into the night. The fly was about the size of his hand and he was certain he’d never seen a fly that big on Earth before. There was something very strange going on.


	9. Chapter 9

As Ianto’s alarm buzzed him into unwilling wakefulness, he became gradually aware of a thin layer of perspiration covering his entire body. He slammed his hand down on the alarm clock, rolled onto his back, grimacing as his bare limbs squeaked against one another, and spread himself out like a starfish. He must have kicked the duvet off in the night. The air in his bedroom was stifling and the curtains hung limp across the open window. But there was something puzzling him. It was still dark.

He turned his head, the nape of his neck uncomfortably damp against his pillow, and looked at the alarm clock. It was six thirty. The sun should have risen over an hour ago. Dragging his sweat-drenched form off the bed, he pulled aside a corner of the curtain and stared in horror at the sight which greeted him. His mobile started to ring, and he grabbed it off the charger, not bothering to check the caller ID before answering.

“What the hell?”

“Tell me I’m dreaming.” Gwen sounded as sticky and bemused as he was.

“’Fraid not.” Ianto peered out as far as he could whilst modestly holding the curtain over his groin. “What is that?”

“According to BBC News, they’re flies,” Gwen informed him. “And they’ve formed a swarm over Cardiff.”

“Shit.” Ianto let go of the curtain and rubbed his eyes as though that might make the flies go away. “Alien?” he asked hopefully. There was the tiniest possibility this had nothing whatsoever to do with the Rift and was simply the result of soaring temperatures and poor domestic hygiene. It was possible. Maybe.

“I don’t know.” He could hear the clinking of a spoon in a mug at Gwen’s end. “I haven’t heard from Jack. Is he with you?”

Ianto smiled at the curiosity poorly disguised as a casual enquiry. “No. I’m at home,” he told her. “Haven’t heard from him either.”

“Oh.”

Ianto suddenly realised that he was no longer holding the curtain and was therefore treating his neighbours and any early-rising passersby to a nice view of his crown jewels. He hastily stepped back from the window. “What are you doing up this early anyway?” he asked as he opened his wardrobe.

“Couldn’t sleep, too hot,” Gwen grumbled. “Rhys is like a bloody furnace.”

“I see.” Ianto chuckled as he laid out a suit, shirt and tie on the bed with one hand. “Guess I’ll see you at the Hub, then?”

“Yep. See you there.”

A cool shower did nothing to help and when Ianto arrived at work a little after seven, having decided that his suit jacket wasn’t even worth bothering with, a new layer of sweat had already started to form in the small of his back. Gwen pulled into the car park just behind him and they walked down to the Hub together. She had abandoned jeans in favour of a floaty skirt and light cotton top and for a moment Ianto envied her. Although the suit was his choice, if this weather kept up, he wondered what his colleagues would have to say if he turned up in Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirt and flip flops tomorrow.

“I tried calling Himself,” Gwen told him as Ianto unlocked the tourist office door and held it open for her. “Went straight to answer phone.”

“Same,” Ianto informed her, locking the door behind them. The sign on the office door gave the opening times as nine to five, Monday to Saturday, but Cardiff Bay’s tourists were more likely than not to find it shut these days.

“Hope he’s not dead somewhere,” Gwen mused, a little more flippantly than Ianto really liked. He knew that Jack never stayed dead, but it still hurt when he died and Ianto hated the thought of him coming to alone in a dodgy backstreet, or a morgue drawer, or buried under someone’s patio because they thought they’d murdered him, or really anywhere that wasn’t Ianto’s arms. Just because Jack didn’t die, it didn’t mean Ianto didn’t _worry_ , a point which he had painfully stressed to Jack only the week before.

“So do I,” Ianto agreed pointedly as they made their way down the refreshingly cool corridor towards the lift. Gwen did have the good grace to look a little guilty. It was easy sometimes to get caught up by Jack’s cavalier attitude to his immortality and forget that though it wasn’t permanent, it was still a death.

As it turned out, Jack was alive and well when they got downstairs and shouting into the phone on his office desk. He scowled at them both through the glass, and Ianto turned to Gwen with a clueless shrug. He was about to offer coffee (or iced tea, or any other cold but suitably caffeinated beverage) when the phone on his own desk rang. Huh. That was funny. It did have an external line but was only really used internally, generally when Gwen got herself lost in the archives. Ianto cautiously picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” The voice on the other end of the phone was young, Welsh and female. “Is this Torchwood?”

Ianto frowned. “Who is this?”

“This is Police Constable Jenny Morris,” she explained. “Your police liaison.”

Ianto’s frown deepened and he covered the mouthpiece with his hand whilst he mouthed ‘police liaison?’ quizzically at Gwen. Gwen simply shrugged, obviously as clueless as he was. “How did you get this number?” he asked cautiously.

“From PC Andy Davison,” she told him.

Ianto covered the mouthpiece again and mouthed ‘Andy’ at Gwen. She rolled her eyes and snatched the phone out of his hand.

“Who is this?” Gwen demanded, plonking herself down in Ianto’s chair. He perched himself on Gwen’s seat to listen to her end of the conversation. “We don’t need a police liaison,” Gwen said, then paused whilst she listened to the reply. “Oh, he did, did he? Is he there? Put him on.”

Gwen fell silent, obviously waiting for the hapless police liaison to fetch Andy. Ianto leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looked up at Jack’s office. He could still hear the muffled diatribe that Jack was pouring into the receiver. He was standing up now, pacing up and down with the phone in one hand, looking as though he might be about to throw it through the window of his office. That, or get himself tangled in the lead.

“Andy, what do you think you’re doing?” Gwen snapped into the phone, bringing Ianto’s attention back to her. “You know we don’t need a police liaison. No, we don’t. We don’t. Shut up. You know perfectly well that we don’t.” Ianto listened to the protesting babble on the other end and smiled at Gwen’s forceful way of putting Andy into place. “And another thing,” Gwen continued, cutting Andy off mid-flow. “What are you doing, giving out Torchwood numbers willy-nilly? This is a top-secret organisation and you are very lucky we haven’t wiped your memories. No I’m not, I...” This time, Andy had apparently cut Gwen off. “Who?” Gwen frowned. “What? Fine.” She swivelled in her seat and pulled a face at Ianto. He smiled sympathetically. “Hello?” Gwen said after a moment. “This is Gwen Cooper.” She paused. “Who?” She sighed. “Oh, hang on.” Gwen held the phone against her chest and turned to Ianto. “It’s DI Robinson,” she told him. “Wants to speak to the ‘fit Welsh guy’.”

Ianto arched a sceptical eyebrow. “Me?”

Gwen looked at him pointedly. “I’m not a guy, and Jack’s not Welsh.”

“And I’m not fit,” Ianto added dryly.

Gwen shook her head and thrust the phone in his direction. Ianto stood up and took it from her, switching seats as he did so. Ianto raised the phone to his ear. “Ianto Jones speaking,” he answered.

“Ianto Jones,” DI Robinson repeated back, amused and very English. “You really are Welsh, aren't you?”

“Well, yes, I am,” Ianto agreed. “What can I help you with?”

“Arthur Robinson,” the policeman stated. “You and your friends walked all over my crime scene last night.”

“Yes, I know who you are,” Ianto confirmed. The name and the face had joined the ever-growing ranks in his memory from the moment that Arthur introduced himself. Ianto never forgot a name or face. It was a useful skill in this job. “What can I help you with?”

Arthur let out a long breath as though he were relaxing into a chair. “I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“With what?” Ianto enquired facetiously. “The stock market? Andy Murray’s performance at Wimbledon? Brad and Angelina?”

Arthur laughed. “Are you flirting with me, Ianto?”

“No,” Ianto assured him flatly. “I was trying to avoid the question.”

“So I noticed,” Arthur replied. “I’d like to know what’s going on with the murder case you took away from me last night. Despite your Men in Black routine, to the outside world I am still the investigating officer and I’d appreciate having something to give Millie Jenkins’ family.”

“We don’t know anything at the moment,” Ianto began carefully. “We’re still investigating.”

Arthur sighed, frustrated. “Another question side-stepped.”

“Not at all,” Ianto assured him. “We really don’t have anything yet. We’ll keep you informed.” It was a lie, but how was Arthur to know?

“Hmm.” Ianto guessed that Arthur was weighing up whether or not to believe him. “Perhaps you could keep me informed over dinner tonight?” Arthur suggested. “Eight o’clock, La Gallois?”

Ianto felt his cheeks burn red, completely thrown by Arthur’s sudden and unexpected offer. He hadn’t been asked out in a long time. “Well, I, uh...” he stuttered, unsure of the politest and quickest way to extract himself from the conversation. “That’s, uh, very nice of you,” he stammered eventually. “But I don’t think it would really be appropriate.” Ah, yes, brilliant choice, he congratulated himself. Go for the professional relationship argument rather than trying to explain the complicated ins and outs of his sexuality and love life.

“I don’t think so,” Arthur pushed.

“Well, I do,” Ianto said quickly. “But I will keep you informed. I’m afraid I have to go now. Goodbye.” He slammed the receiver down before Arthur had a chance to reply and sat in a daze staring at it for a moment.

“Ianto, you’ve gone bright red,” Gwen crowed.

He flushed an even deeper red. “It must be the heat,” he asserted calmly in a desperate effort to put her off the scent.

“If I get one more phone call from a damned bureaucrat,” Jack yelled as he marched out of his office, cutting off any further teasing comment from Gwen, which Ianto was incredibly grateful for. 

“Bad morning?” Gwen asked sympathetically, rubbing Jack’s arm understandingly.

“You could say,” Jack replied darkly. “Surely it’s too early for politicians to be up?”

“They’ve not gone home to roost yet.” Ianto smiled. “Coffee?”

“Yes. God, yes.” Jack made an exaggerated show of gasping for breath. “I’m parched.”

Ianto quickly slipped over the coffee machine. Jack looked at his retreating back and then looked Gwen up and down. “Is it hot out there?” he asked eventually.

“Baking,” Gwen told him. “It’s pretty hot in here. Are the phone calls about the flies?”

“Yep.” Jack sank into Ianto’s vacated seat. “Big swarm of flies over Cardiff and it’s automatically our fault.”

“I assume the Rift is responsible?” Gwen asked as she turned and logged herself into her computer.

“I haven’t had a chance to check it thoroughly.” Jack leant his head over the back of his seat and stared up into the vast cavernous space above. “There were no Rift alerts in the night.”

“But considering what happened last night, surely it’s got to be related?” Gwen mused.

Jack folded his hands over his stomach and swung idly from side to side, still staring dreamily up at the ceiling. “Could be a coincidence.”

“I’ve learnt from experience there aren’t many coincidences in this job.” Ianto stepped forward with a tray of coffees. Jack sat up and took his, blowing on it before taking a sip. “Careful, you’ll burn your...”

“Ow.” Jack winced and spat the coffee back out. Too late.

“...Tongue,” Ianto finished. Every time, almost without fail. He’d have thought the man would have learnt by now. Still, at least Jack’s tongue would heal within the hour so there'd be no danger of furry-tongue issues later. Jack glowered at him and set his coffee to one side. Ianto smiled sweetly back and offered the tray to Gwen.

“Oh, thanks, Ianto, but it’s just too hot.” Gwen picked up a half-completed incident report from her desk and fanned herself with it to emphasise her point. “Don’t we have anything cold?”

“Water or milk?” Ianto offered. He had just checked the fridge and other than milk, there was only half a carton of pineapple juice which on closer inspection had appeared to be growing mould and a six pack of lager, which it probably wasn’t appropriate to drink at seven thirty in the morning.

Gwen pulled a face. “Water’ll have to do.”

“Coming up.”

Ianto set his own coffee down next to Jack’s and took the tray back to the kitchenette. He looked at Gwen’s mug and weighed up the decision in his mind. Would it be a greater waste to throw it away or to re-heat it in the microwave later on? Re-heat, he decided. His coffee should not have to bear the indignity of re-heating. He picked up the cup and poured the hot coffee down the drain before hunting around in the cupboards for a glass.

“You know what amazes me?” Jack was saying to Gwen.

“What?” Gwen sounded as though she was only marginally interested in Jack’s thoughts and Ianto could hear the clicking of the mouse. She was probably checking Facebook. He could recognise the rhythm of her fingers on the keyboard as she typed in her password. That probably proved they spent too much time at work. And later, she’d reel off a list of old school friends who were now pregnant, married and/or divorced and tell Ianto exactly how all her crops were doing on Farmville and he’d nod and smile and thank God that someone on the team had a grasp of how popular culture worked in more than an ‘I’ve read that other people do it’ way.

“The stupidity of the Welsh public in voting in Alistair Hughes,” Jack continued. “The man is a pompous, self-serving idiot.”

As the new leader of the Welsh Assembly, Alistair Hughes had thrown a tantrum to rival even the most petulant toddler when he found out about Torchwood, as it was deemed necessary that he should. He claimed that the citizens of South Wales had been lied to and deserved to know the truth. Jack had been persuasive and he had eventually backed down, but given half the chance Ianto would dearly love to retcon the knowledge of Torchwood out of Alistair Hughes’ mind forever, despite assurances from Westminster that ‘action would be taken’ should Mr Hughes step out of line.

“I didn’t vote for him,” Gwen said. “I voted for what’s-his-name, the other one. He had a friendly face.”

“George Draig,” Ianto informed her, coming up from the kitchenette and setting a glass of water down on her desk. He put his hands in his pockets and leant back on the desks. “I didn’t get to vote at all. I was busy chasing that blue wormy thing around Bute Park.”

“Did you vote, Jack?” Gwen asked curiously. “After all, you are a citizen.”

“I tend to avoid voting if I can,” Jack answered. “Doesn’t do to change the course of history.” He wrinkled his nose. “And I have a general mistrust of politicians.”

“You’re not alone there,” Ianto agreed. “So what’s the plan?”

Jack sat up, assuming the expression that usually pre-empted a string of orders. “Follow-up from last night,” he said, jabbing his forefingers at his employees. “I’m gonna see if I can find out anything more about these flies.” He picked up his coffee cup and headed for the stairs. “Oh, and keep an eye out for anything related.”

Ianto and Gwen nodded in affirmation and Jack disappeared into his office. Ianto slid into the seat that he had vacated and logged himself into his PC. 

Gwen glanced across at him. “Is it me, or are our team meetings becoming more and more vague?”


	10. Chapter 10

Jack emerged from his office to the sound of laughter. Sniggering, to be precise. Ianto had pulled his chair over to Gwen’s desk and was operating the mouse whilst she hammered away at her keyboard with an only slightly more sophisticated rendition of Jack’s aggressive two finger punching style. In his defence, keyboards would be all but obsolete by the 51st century. And yet Jack could still get half hard watching Ianto touch-type. He couldn’t quite work out what Gwen and Ianto were doing, but with their heads together, giggling and pointing at the screen, they resembled naughty schoolchildren concocting an elaborate prank.

Jack paused and leant on the railings to watch. They hadn’t noticed him yet. It was good to hear laughter again, he realised, floating up and filling the Hub. It seemed as though no one had laughed in here for months. He felt himself smile a genuine smile and realised that hadn’t happened often lately either.

His mobile beeped loudly in his pocket with a text alert and both Gwen and Ianto looked round from their computer to see him standing there. Jack just beamed at them, turning away as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. There were only three people in the world who sent him text messages, four if you counted the occasional missive from Martha, and two were in the room with him right now. So he could take a pretty good guess at who the message would be from. He opened the message, saw Alice’s name at the top and realised he’d guessed correctly. The message was perfunctory and launched in with no opening line or affectionate ‘Hi Dad’. Her messages never did. It simply asked ‘I expect you know why there’s a swarm of flies over Cardiff and why Steven’s school has been closed because of an ‘unidentifiable infestation’?’

Jack smiled, exited the message and put his phone back in his pocket. He would reply later. Alice would expect no less from her undependable father. If she’d needed an urgent response, she would have rung and he would go running. She knew that. And she hardly ever rang. He clattered down the steps to join Gwen and Ianto.

“Should I be worried?” he asked, clapping a hand on both their shoulders, eyebrows shooting up when he saw the picture on the screen.

“It’s for the Student Union website,” Ianto explained as he minimised the Photoshopped image and brought up a webpage. “We’re circulating rumours about a new craze for having sex after hours in university buildings.”

Jack tilted his head to get a better angle on the grainy image of an amorous couple in a laboratory which they had posted on the Union forum. Above it, Gwen had typed the words: Is This You? Underneath were several comments on the photo and a number of ‘students’ claiming to have witnessed similar incidents. Ianto brought up Photoshop again and critically assessed his manipulation of a pair of students screwing on a lecture bench.

“Think this one’s ready to email to the student paper,” he decided.

“Then we’ll do the video phone thing for YouTube,” Gwen agreed enthusiastically.

Jack shook his head. “And you two think I’m childish?”

Gwen appeared mock-wounded. “We have to appeal to students,” she protested. “We’re trying to distract them from talking about what happened at Car-Bar last night.”

“Ah.” Jack watched as Ianto emailed the photo from a fake Hotmail account.

“And everyone knows the best way to appeal to students is with a titillating sex story,” Ianto added.

“Yes!” Gwen whooped. “We’ve got a bite.”

Ianto scrolled down to view the comment from a real-life, genuine student on the forum thread: ‘WTF?’ it read. ‘Is this for real? LMAO.’

“Could be more eloquent,” Ianto mused. “But it’s a start.”

Jack nodded proudly. “Good work guys.” He took a step back and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Might need to check out a report of an ‘unidentifiable infestation’ at the Cathedral School.”

He saw Gwen and Ianto exchange a look, but Ianto gave himself a shove away from Gwen’s desk and wheeled his chair back to his own station. Within seconds his fingers were flying over the keyboard. At that moment, a Rift alert began frantically flashing in the bottom corner of Gwen’s screen. Jack took a step forward again and watched as she pulled up the Rift monitoring programme. “CF24 2HP,” she read off the screen and waited for the accompanying map to load.

“Splott, Tremorfa,” Ianto announced, without looking away from his screen.

“Nerd,” Gwen shot back.

“Google,” Ianto contradicted.

“Since when is Google Maps faster than our Rift monitoring software?” Jack lamented as the familiar blue map of Cardiff finally loaded up, with a blinking red dot over Tremorfa.

“Since there was no one alive who knows how to maintain it,” Gwen murmured as she patched into the security services.

Ianto’s rapid typing stopped and he glanced over at Jack. When Jack caught his eye, he looked quickly back at his screen and resumed typing. “Yeah, I’ll um...” Jack inspected his fingernails in great detail. “I’ll take a look at it.” He coughed. “You know, in the meantime...”

“Yeah.” Gwen pulled up the police call log for the last half an hour. “Pengam Green Tesco Extra,” she announced, and Jack was glad of the distraction. “Reports of a disturbance in the bakery. The manager has evacuated the store and the police are on their way.”

“Nothing obvious on the satellite image,” Ianto confirmed.

“Right.” Jack turned and grabbed his coat from the coat stand, though it was really far too hot for him to need it. “Gwen with me. Ianto, call the cops off and let them know we’re on our way. See if you can get any more info while you’re at it.”

“I’m on it.”

Jack shrugged on his coat and straightened out the collar as he headed for the passageway that led to the car park, Gwen following close behind. “Oh and Ianto?” He swivelled round abruptly, causing Gwen to barrel into the back of him. He ignored her glare.

“Yeah?” Ianto was slumped in his seat and glanced lethargically over his shoulder. Sometimes Jack missed the days of the respectful ‘yes sirs’ that he used to get, but it was offset by the knowledge that he could now coax any title he liked out of Ianto.

“Keep looking into the ‘unidentifiable infestation’ at the Cathedral School.”

“Will do.” Ianto swung back to face his desk and picked up the phone. He was lounging so far back in his seat that he could barely reach the receiver or dial. Jack shook his head disapprovingly, blaming Ianto's shoddy standards on the heatwave, and he and Gwen turned to leave.

-*-

“Rhys hates Tesco,” Gwen announced as Jack pulled out from the underground car park and roared out onto the main road. “He thinks they’re taking over the world.”

“Maybe they are?” Jack suggested.

“Yeah, right.” Gwen snorted. Then something seemed to occur to her and she looked over at Jack nervously. “They don’t, do they?” she asked. “I mean, you know, in the future, they haven’t renamed the Earth ‘Every Little Helps’ have they?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything about the future Gwen,” Jack reminded her solemnly.

Gwen’s eyes widened. “Oh my God, they haven’t, have they?”

Jack chuckled, keeping his eyes on the road. “No. They haven’t.”

“Bastard.” Gwen flung a hand out and whacked him on the arm, but it was only half-hearted. Jack grinned in response. “Thing is,” Gwen continued on from her original point. “He thinks that Waitrose and Sainsbury rip you off, so we end up getting everything in Co-op. And I know that’s good because they’re fair trade and all that, but they just don’t have as much choice, and I honestly don’t think they’re that much cheaper than the others.”

As Gwen talked, Jack leant forward in his seat and peered up at the sky out of the windscreen. The dark shadows cast over Cardiff by the swarming flies combined with the oppressive heat gave the feeling of a storm approaching. Jack loved storms. They had the most impressive lightning storms on the Boeshane Peninsula. As a kid, he loved listening to the crack of the thunder and watching the brilliant electric charges split the sky in two as they forked down to the ground, lighting up the whole Peninsula in those brief seconds. He would stand out on the beach with the warm rain beating down on his upturned face until his mother dragged him inside. It rained a lot in Cardiff but it wasn’t hot enough or high enough to have many thunder storms. He’d give anything for a good storm right now. There was something about the relief of tension when a storm broke - the sense of freedom and euphoric powerlessness in the face of nature - that thrilled him.

Gwen was still talking. “But the thing is, I don’t want to moan too much, in case he makes me start shopping in Lidl and I’m not sure I could stand that.” She shuddered. “I did say what about Asda but he started on about the Americans or something.”

Jack couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face. Gwen was just so wonderfully ordinary sometimes when she started babbling away about things that seemed so important to her and made very little sense to him at all. It was at times like these that he really was glad to have her on his team.

Gwen caught him grinning. “Sorry,” she apologised sheepishly. “I’m going on again.”

“Don’t be.” Jack smiled encouragingly. “I like it when you talk about normal stuff.” And, when she leant forward in that top, with the light coming into the car at that angle, he could see her bra. Wasn’t the world just wonderful?

“You can be very patronising, you know,” Gwen huffed.

“I am not,” Jack protested, hurt. “I think it’s fantastic that you and Rhys argue about supermarkets. It makes it all worthwhile.”

Gwen huffed out another disagreeing snort. “I suppose you don’t have this trouble,” she grumbled. “You just shop wherever you like.”

Jack shrugged as he moved over into the right hand lane at the traffic lights on the Newport Road. “I don’t really go to supermarkets.”

Gwen tutted like a disapproving elderly relative. “It’s bad for you, living off takeaways,” she told him.

Jack shrugged again. “I doubt it.” He had put on a lot of weight in his early thirties, though he preferred to think of it as muscle bulk, but ever since he died for the first time on the Gamestation, it seemed to have put a stop to any propensity to gain weight. Now he never stayed alive long enough for his diet of greasy takeaways to have any serious effect on his health. Heart disease would be a nasty way to go but he could always shoot himself and his body would reset: one hundred percent healthy, tip-top condition. He could cook and he enjoyed it too, he just never found the time for it. And all the other supplies just seemed to appear in the Hub. Ianto, he supposed. Consequently he had not needed to use a supermarket for some years.

“Jack.” Ianto’s voice sounded loudly in his Bluetooth, startling him out his thoughts.

“Ianto.” Jack reached forward and put him on speakerphone. “What have you got for us?”

“I’ve got an update on the Cathedral School,” Ianto told them as they crossed over the railway. A red and grey Cross Country train blew its horn as it rumbled under the bridge. “Apparently it was it was woodworm in the school hall.”

“Woodworm?” Jack repeated.

“Yes,” Ianto confirmed. “Website says the school’s closed, so I rang up pretending to be a concerned parent, and they told me everything was under control.” He paused. “I checked it out,” he continued. “I think it actually is woodworm.”

“Ok, great,” Jack conceded.

There was another pause. “Why did you want to know?” Ianto asked tentatively.

“Oh you know,” Jack began breezily. “I was monitoring things, picked up on the report, thought it might be related.”

“Oh.”

Ianto said nothing more and Jack hoped he’d bought it. They both knew that never in a million years would Jack be monitoring anything. He left that side of things to Gwen and Ianto. “Anything on the bakery disturbance?” he asked hastily, before Gwen could make any comment.

“Just coming in,” Ianto told them. They heard the rattle of keys in the background. “The caller who reported the incident to the police described them as giant earwigs,” Ianto relayed. “They’ve managed to contain them in the bakery.”

Jack sighed heavily. “Ok, thanks. Keep us informed of any developments.”

“Have fun.”

Jack shuddered and grimaced. Gwen looked across at him curiously. “What?”

Jack pulled a face as he turned into the expansive Tesco car park. “I really don’t like earwigs.”

There was a crowd of shoppers milling around the entrance to the store and Jack accelerated towards them, swinging the SUV round at the last minute and coming to a screeching halt with the front right wheel on the pedestrian crossing and the two nearside wheels mounting the pavement. Gwen rolled her eyes as she reached to undo her seatbelt but Jack ignored her. He would park wherever the hell he liked.

Gwen and Jack stepped out of the car and were immediately met by a barrage of questions from the interrupted shoppers. One woman - impossibly dark hair with terrible roots, sunglasses perched atop her head - waved a shopping list in their faces.

“It took me bloody ages to get all this together,” she moaned. “And I’m damned if I’m trawling round that shop again.”

Gwen opened her mouth to reply but was cut off by a burly man, tattoos crawling out from under the sleeves of his t-shirt, hair cropped short.

“I need that bread I do,” he fumed. “I can’t make sandwiches for the old folk without it.”

A little old lady tugged at Jack’s sleeve. “It’s Thursday,” she told him when he looked down at her. “I always get my shopping on a Thursday.”

Jack smiled at her and turned to Gwen with a silent plea to do or say something that would extricate them from the situation. Gwen acknowledged him with a smile and turned, backing towards the door. Jack pushed through the crowd and made it inside as Gwen reassured the customers that they would be able to get back in soon. She was much better at that sort of thing that he was. Jack strode into the fruit and veg department and accosted the first member of staff he came across — a kid who looked like he should still be in school.

“Where’s the manager?” Jack asked.

The boy shrugged. “Dunno. They said he’s coming.”

Jack sighed. “Where’s his office?”

The boy was about to reply when a harried-looking man in a suit hurried across to him. “I’ve just had a call from head office,” the man explained. “They want to know what’s going on. Are you the police?”

“We’re Pest Control,” Jack explained. “Here about the earwigs?”

“Aye, well, if you can call them that.” The manager’s balding forehead was perspiring heavily, dotted all over with beads of sweat. “They’re in the bakery. This way.”

Gwen had finally fought off the questions and onlookers and made it into the store. A line-up of spotty and gormless members of staff in their matching blue polo shirts stood with slack-jawed stares as they followed manager towards the back of the store.

As the manager led them to the bakery, Jack couldn’t help letting his gaze and attention wander to the homeware department on his left. His eyes lighted on a cast iron skillet and he grinned at a memory.

Paris, 1927. Now that had been a spectacular trip. His first solo assignment as a Time Agent. His first trip to the 20th century. And the first time he realised that not all food could be cooked in thirty seconds, didn’t all have virtually the same, slightly rubbery texture no matter what the flavour and didn’t all come in a shrink-wrapped packet you could keep in your cupboard indefinitely. 1920s Paris was when Jack Harkness discovered fresh food and fine cooking, and consequently the wonderful and exotic array of implements and equipment necessary for the preparation and cooking of it. He’d never looked back.

He broke away from Gwen and the manager and strayed into the aisle, letting his fingers dance over a stack of Victoria sandwich tins. “Ooh-hoo, look at all this stuff,” he enthused. “I could have some fun in here.”

Gwen backtracked and stood at the end of the aisle, arms folded disapprovingly. “I suspect you could have fun anywhere Jack,” she responded dryly.

Jack pouted petulantly. “You’re starting to sound like Ianto,” he told her. “You’re spending too much time with him.”

“I doubt that,” Gwen assured him.

“You just need to use your imagination,” Jack told her, seeing the look of scepticism on her face. “For instance.” He grabbed a hand whisk off a nearby rack and eyed it up lasciviously. “I could use this.”

Gwen’s expression changed from sceptical to horrified. “What for?”

Jack shook his head sadly. “That’s the trouble with the 21st century.”

He saw the flash of indignation behind Gwen’s eyes and before he knew she had grabbed a fish slice off one of the shelves and was brandishing it in his face. “Want me to spank you with this, do you?” she asked.

Jack laughed. “Gwen Cooper,” he mock chastised her. “Behave yourself.” Jack knew that the flirting was safe now - just friendly. It seemed to him that both he and Gwen had become more relaxed around each other, not constantly trying to second guess each other’s moves and motives, and had consequently become much closer as a result.

Gwen’s response was to playfully smack him round the head with the fish slice. Someone cleared their throat behind them. The manager was standing at the entrance to the aisle. He glared at them. “Do you mind?”

Jack and Gwen sheepishly replaced the utensils, mumbled their apologies and followed him to the bakery. When they got there, the bakery was in disarray. A large man in a white baker’s outfit was standing on a chair, trembling.

“This is Dennis, our head baker,” the manager explained. He pointed to two young men standing awkwardly and confused in the corner. “Andrzej and Milek,” the manager introduced them. “They don’t speak much English.” He turned finally to a young girl who was brandishing a broom. “Oh, and this is Sophie.”

“I is holding them back,” she explained, her accent a curious mix of South Wales and East London. “They is behind the rolls, innit?”

“Ok then.” Jack took a deep breath. “We’d better take a look.”

Sophie led them forward and pushed aside a tray of burger buns with the end of the broom. Two earwigs, the size of shoes, scuttled away under a trolley stacked with crusty loaves. Jack shuddered. Gwen stood beside him with her hands on her hips.

“Plan?” she enquired.

“Kill them?” Jack suggested hopefully.

Gwen tutted disapprovingly. “You know that’s not our policy Jack.”

“I know, I know,” Jack agreed. “Just, ugh.” He shuddered again and turned to face Gwen. “You’d better fetch the crates and spray from the car.”

“Right.” Gwen turned away and called over her shoulder as she left the bakery. “What did your last slave die of?”

Jack winked at her. “I’ll make it up to you later.”

Gwen simply laughed, shook her head and left. Jack crouched down, wincing, and tried to get a look at the earwigs that were hiding behind the bread. He became aware of Sophie standing over him.

“Is she your misses?” she asked curiously. “’Cause that is well gutting if she is, ‘cause you is well buff.”

Jack looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you have no idea,” he assured her. “So — how many are there under here?”

Sophie shrugged. “Dunno, maybe like eight or summit.”

“Helpful, thanks.” Jack saw a scuttling movement in the gloom and stood up. He might just wait for Gwen to get back.

She returned a few moments later, lugging the crates and bug spray. She dumped them on the floor and stood beside Jack.

“Ok.” Jack rolled the word around his mouth. “Let’s see.”

He took the broom from Sophie and pushed it under the tray of crusty rolls. He levered it upwards and peered under. An earwig scuttled out and ran over his shoe. Jack let out an undignified yelp and leapt backwards into Gwen, who sighed.

“Honestly Jack.” Jack couldn’t help but notice the smugness in her voice. “Man up.”

“I don’t think my manhood’s ever been in question,” Jack assured her, trying to gather his dignity back.

“Less innuendo, more bug spraying,” Gwen chastised him fondly. “Chop, chop.”

It took a while, but with Sophie’s help, eventually they managed to successfully herd the earwigs into the crates. The other bakery workers and the manager made a curious audience to the spectacle. They had just finished when Ianto’s voice came through on their Bluetooths. Jack wiped a layer of sweat from his forehead and stepped to one side to listen. The blistering heat of the day combined with the residual heat from the bread ovens was making it stiflingly hot in the bakery.

“I’m faxing through a mocked-up Environmental Health report,” Ianto told them. “One of you can sign it. It just explains what happened. Well, you know, what we want them to think has happened.”

“Great, thanks Ianto,” Gwen answered. She approached the manager. “Where’s your fax machine?”

“In my office,” the manager told her. “This way.”

He lead Gwen off to his office and Jack knelt in front of the crate. One of the earwigs curled a drowsy antenna through the plastic and he instantly leant away from it, grimacing. He knew it was irrational for him to be scared of anything, but he supposed that in reality, most phobias were irrational. And his list of phobias was pretty short compared to most — earwigs, commitment and confined spaces.

Gwen returned shortly with the form and passed it to him, along with a biro. Jack read Ianto’s carefully worded report, which shrouded the events in such vague jargon that anyone reading it wouldn’t really know what they’d just read. He scrawled an illegible signature on the form and handed it to the manager.

“The bakery will have to be fully exhumed before you can use it again,” Jack told him, making it up on the spot. “And you won’t be able to use any of the bread products in here at the moment.” He shook hands with the manager. “Our colleagues will be in touch regarding the, uh, exhuming.” Was that even the right word?

“Thank you.” The manager shook his hand back and nodded to Gwen who smiled at him.

Jack and Gwen picked up the crate between them and left the bakery. Sophie offered Jack a flirtatious wave as he passed her and he smiled back. Still got it, he thought. As they made their way back out to the front of the store, Jack found his eyes straying to the kitchen utensils again, particularly to a set of silicon pastry brushes.

“Will our colleagues be in touch?” Gwen asked pointedly.

Jack shrugged. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out.”

They emerged out of the front of the supermarket where Gwen told the assembled customers that they could go back in now, but regrettably there would be no fresh bread on sale. Then they pushed their way through the throng back to the SUV, heaved the crate into the boot and set off back to the Hub.

-*-

Ianto was distinctly unimpressed when Jack and Gwen returned to the Hub. The phone had been ringing off the hook. He hadn’t answered the phone so much since he spent three months working for a customer service helpdesk.

“I thought my days as a receptionist were over,” Ianto complained, when Jack and Gwen reemerged from dumping the crate of earwigs in the cells.

“Shame,” Jack mused. “I like the idea of you in a short skirt with a typewriter. My very own Miss Moneypenny.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Gwen said, disappearing off in the direction of the toilets. Ianto couldn’t help blushing, but he supposed that was his comeuppance for trying to make Jack sit through Bond films.

“As always I’m astounded by your ability to piss off so many important people,” Ianto continued, deciding to brush past the secretary comments. “I think I’ve just about managed to placate them all.”

“That’s what you’re here for,” Jack told him as he shrugged off his coat and hung it up.

Ianto flipped open the notebook he was carrying. It was labelled ‘Jack’s Phone Messages’ and every message was neatly marked with the caller’s name, organisation and number, the time they called, and the bullet-pointed message. Ianto was stringent about ticking off the messages after he had given them to Jack, and then ticking them again when he’d finally managed to get Jack to deal with them. He kept this notebook separate from his ‘General Phone Messages’ notebook which he had been trying to get Gwen to use, but to no avail. She tended to just scribble things down anywhere she could find a space, usually on the back of her hand.

“A Colonel Odeyo from UNIT called,” Ianto read out. “Said you hung up on him twice this morning and he’d appreciate a call back when it’s convenient.”

Jack snorted. “Not gonna happen.”

“A June McConnell from the Mayor’s office, wants to set up a meeting between you and the Mayor.” Ianto clocked Jack’s amused expression. “I mentioned that your diary was rather full.” Ianto ticked and flipped to the next message. “Some bloke at the Council, Ken Jones, said he’d come up with something you’d be interested in.” He tapped the end of his pen against the pad. “Wouldn’t leave a message though, said he needed to speak to you direct.” Jack seemed marginally interested in that, which was unexpected. Ianto flipped to the final message. “Oh, and Sandy Bowles, returning your call from earlier?”

“Brilliant.” Jack seemed very excited by this, grabbed the pad out of Ianto’s and bounded up the stairs to his office.

Ianto stood and stared after him in amazement. “You’re welcome,” he huffed sarcastically, aiming his pen like a dart in the direction of Jack’s office but deciding he was too hot and bothered to try and throw it up there. Instead he flicked it into air, caught it and went back to his desk.


	11. Chapter 11

Jack bounded out of his office at five to two looking more excited than Gwen had seen him all day. It was inopportune that he emerged at the very same moment that she took an overambitious bite of her sandwich and squirted Marie Rose dressing all down her chin and over her hand, leaving a prawn trailing from the corner of her mouth. As Gwen poked out her tongue to retrieve the prawn, Jack disturbingly waggled his eyebrows at her as though he’d never seen anything so sexy. That man had strange kinks.

“So the City Council have finally come up trumps,” Jack announced.

Gwen grabbed a scrunched up paper napkin and began to mop at the sauce on her face and hand that was starting to dribble down her wrist. “In what way?” she mumbled through her mouthful.

“A non-toxic insecticide,” Jack revealed. “Ten gallons of it.”

“Great.” Gwen licked the sauce from her watchstrap. Ianto, the bastard, had somehow managed to eat his chicken tikka sub without getting even the faintest traces of the bright red sauce on his face and was now licking each of his long fingers clean. Jack swivelled his head and stared at Ianto provocatively posting his fingers into his mouth, clearly wondering if this was his reward for spending a morning being insulted by various government officials and chasing earwigs.

Ianto sucked his last finger clean. “And what, exactly, are we supposed to do with ten gallons of non-toxic insecticide?” he enquired.

Jack simply grinned; this was obviously something he was _very_ excited about. “You’ll see.” He pulled on his coat. “Friend of mine owes me a favour. Come on.”

Gwen and Ianto exchanged a look and Gwen drained the rest of her coke. Ianto had thoughtfully stocked the fridge with coke and iced tea, since it was too hot for coffee (previously unheard of) and yet they all needed regular caffeine hits if they weren’t going to kill each other. Jack had already disappeared out of the door so Gwen and Ianto followed.

As the SUV sped down the A4323 Bridge over the river Taff, neither Gwen, sitting up front with Jack, nor Ianto, who was monitoring local reactions to the swarm in the back, felt it wise to ask Jack why they were heading out of Cardiff when such a large-scale problem was currently unresolved. They both held their tongues, which Gwen realised was actually frustrating Jack, since every time she glanced across at him he was squirming in his seat like an excitable child, as though he was waiting for someone to ask him where they were going. She rested her arm on the window ledge, let the cooling breeze lift her hair from her face and smiled. This time she was not going to indulge him.

They passed out from under the dark cloud, but Jack kept driving. Gwen wanted to look at Ianto and use the silent eye conversation they had perfected for discussing Jack in his presence, but Ianto was sitting directly behind her. These days, when the three of them went anywhere in the SUV together, Ianto would usually be riding shotgun because he was better on directions. He seemed to have a schematic of Cardiff’s road network inside his head, whereas Gwen directed whoever was driving down one way streets and forced them into illegal turns at restricted junctions. Truthfully, there weren’t many occasions when they all went out together now since they were stretched so thinly.

“Are we headed for the airport?” Ianto enquired from the back, lifting his head from the computer monitor to consider the scenery flashing past the windows.

“Maybe.” Jack grinned broadly, as if expecting a follow-up question but Ianto didn’t oblige, just put his head back down and rattled his fingers over the keyboard again. When Gwen checked across, she felt a little concerned that Jack might be about to burst something, such were the signs of barely-contained excitement.

It turned out that they were indeed heading for the airport. The windows of the terminal glinted and the tarmac of the runway shimmered in the afternoon sun. Jack passed the main entrances to the car parks and carried on towards to Rhoose. As they passed the far end of the runway, he turned off at a roundabout and headed towards a white building at the far side of the airport. Gwen observed that he seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Jack brought the SUV to a halt outside the building. There were a few cars parked up to one side but the tarmac area in front of the building was mostly full of small planes parked up in ranks. “This is the aptly named White Building,” Jack explained as he unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. “The Cardiff School of Aviation.”

Jack stepped out of the car and Gwen twisted in her seat to look at Ianto questioningly.

“Don’t look at me,” he said with a shrug, opening his door and getting out.

Gwen sighed and opened her own door. It smelt hot out here; the baking tarmac and aviation fuel reminding her of past holidays. Package holidays to Spain and Greece when she was a kid, with groups of friends from college and more recently with Rhys. The airport car parks were full and she shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched an Aer Lingus plane taxi out along the runway and take off. She turned around and looked back in the direction of the city, shrouded in the dark swarm of clouds.

Bringing herself back to reality, she watched Jack stride across the car park to meet a grey-haired, soft-featured old man. She and Ianto followed along behind. Jack greeted the man with a bear hug and pulled back, beaming as he turned to face Gwen and Ianto.

“This is Sandy Bowles,” he introduced them. “A very old and trusted friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sandy nodded with a warm smile. Gwen and Ianto nodded back in greeting.

“Is that it?” Jack nodded to a nearby plane. Its red and white paint was gleaming in the bright sunlight, the letters G-BERL daubed on its tail.

“Yep,” Sandy confirmed.

Jack walked over and ran his hand fondly over the nose of the plane. “This is a Cessna 172,” Jack told them, patting the side of the aeroplane affectionately. “The greatest single engine, fixed wing aircraft ever built.”

Gwen was about to ask what the hell they were doing there when a white City Council van squealed into the car park and a man in a council branded polo shirt stepped out. He headed towards them.

“Ken Jones?” Jack enquired.

“No, I’m Gary, pest control,” the man corrected him.

“Ah.” Jack nodded. “You have the insecticide?”

“Aye.”

“Good.”

Jack turned to Gwen and Ianto and clapped his hands together. “So - the plan is, we fly above the swarm and spray the non-toxic insecticide out of the back and kill the flies. Any questions?”

“Can’t we use one of those crop-spraying planes?” Ianto asked. “Like in _North by Northwest_.”

“What have told you about comparing real life to the movies Ianto?” Jack chastised jokingly. “You’d be hard pushed to find one of those planes in this country,” he explained. “We don’t have the large fields of crops that they do in the States. So, this is our best option.” He patted the plane again. It was disturbing to Gwen how affectionate Jack was being towards it. “Are the roadsweepers on standby?” Jack asked Gary.

“Aye.”

“Great.” He turned back to Gwen and Ianto. “I’m going to get the insecticide loaded while Sandy gives you a quick flying lesson, ok?”

-*-

Gwen noted irritably that Jack seemed to have got away without wearing the unflattering flying suits that she and Ianto had been fitted out with. Hers was several sizes too big, held in by a belt around the waist, which was not a flattering look, and Ianto’s was several inches too short in both the legs and sleeves. Jack was lounging back against the Cessna’s nose, grinning furiously, Gwen assumed, from a mixture of excitement and amusement at their appearance.

“Team Torchwood, looking fantastic as always,” he smirked.

Sandy walked across and laid out a map against the side of the plane. “Have you cleared the route with the CAA?” he asked.

“Yep.” Jack joined him and studied the map.

“According to the news, the swarm’s at 5,000 feet,” Sandy said.

“Right.” Jack beckoned Gwen and Ianto over. He pointed to the map. “We have an area of roughly five square miles,” he told them. “So that’s 2 gallons per square mile, ok?”

They both nodded in agreement. Jack reached inside the plane and tossed headsets to them both. He grabbed a third and put it on.

“Good flight Captain.” Sandy stuck out a hand and Jack shook it.

Gwen saw Ianto’s expression change from one of uncomfortable worry about his flight suit constricting his testicles to one of panic. “You’re flying?”

“Yep.” Jack looked ever so slightly hurt. “These things have hardly changed since I first flew one in the fifties.”

“Do you even have a license?”

“Of course.” Jack grinned as he lifted himself up into the cockpit. “Like I’d let that expire.”

“Unlike his driving license,” Ianto muttered as he and Gwen donned their headsets and climbed into the rear of the plane.

Sandy slammed the doors shut and the small plane began to thrum as Jack gunned the engine. He turned the plane and drove it slowly out onto the runway.

“Cessna Bravo-Echo-Romeo-Lima cleared for take-off.” Gwen heard an unfamiliar voice in her headset.

“Copy that,” she heard Jack reply.

She held on tightly as the plane sped up, thundering and rattling down the runway, until suddenly she got that wobbly feeling in her stomach as the plane left the ground and lifted up into the air. She heard Jack’s whoops in her headphones and couldn’t help but find it infectious. Ianto had his face pressed up to the tiny window on his side of the plane.

They rose higher and higher until Jack circled the plane and headed back towards Cardiff. Gwen peered out of her window and saw the green fields and houses growing further away until they were suddenly obscured by the blanket of flies under them.

“Ok.” Jack’s voice came through to their headsets. “Get spraying. And be careful,” he added.

Gwen and Ianto cautiously slid back the doors of the plane and shifted over the first two drums of insecticide. Gwen opened the valve on hers and tilted it out of the door, trying not to look down and feel too queasy about the drop beneath her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of heights, but hanging unrestrained out of a plane six thousand feet up was something else. She watched as the insecticide drifted down in a fine mist towards the swarm, floating out behind the Cessna.

As Jack directed them, they slowly sprayed the contents of all ten drums over the swarm. Gwen crouched at the side of the plane, holding tightly to the door, and watched as the flies began to thin out and drop out of the sky. Jack circled the plane a few times around until he was satisfied that the swarm had been dispersed.

“Ok kids,” he said finally. “Strap yourselves in — let’s have some fun while we’re up there.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Gwen heard Ianto asked as they slammed the doors shut.

“I’ve flown spaceships halfway across the universe,” came Jack’s reply, fuzzy across the radio. “But there’s nothing that can compare to flying a plane. Trust me.”

Gwen looked across and saw Ianto shrug as they both strapped themselves in to the small seats in the back of the plane. Jack turned the nose of the plane sharply up and the horizon tilted and disappeared as they climbed steadily into the blue sky. The right wing dipped and Gwen peered out of the small window at the land below; green fields and sandy beaches stretched along the South Wales coast. The sea was a palette of blues and turquoises.

With the plane rising and falling, soaring along the coast, and Jack’s joyful shouts in her ears, Gwen couldn’t help laughing with him. As Jack brought the plane down and swerved round, tipping the wings one way and then the other, she felt her stomach flip. She looked across at Ianto who had a similarly enraptured smile on his face.

Jack spent about an hour flying up and down the coast, out as far as Swansea; the Mumbles of Gwen’s home town were laid out in a heart-warming beauty she’d never felt before when she thought about home. Eventually, he decided, with some prompting from Ianto, albeit reluctant, that he should probably bring the Cessna down and return to reality. The streets were carpeted with dead flies as they drove back into Cardiff but the council roadsweepers were already hard at work. They passed several people filming and taking pictures on their mobile phones.

Gwen leant her arm on the ledge of the car door and let the air conditioning do its work. The sun was streaming through the windscreen and threatening to burn her skin, which had been shockingly underexposed to sunlight in the last few years. She shot a look across at Jack who seemed happier than she’d seen him in a long while.

“So,” she ventured, seeing as he was in a good mood. “Is Sandy an ex?”

“No, just a friend,” Jack revealed. “Actually, we were both after the same girl, back in the sixties.” He laughed his nostalgic laugh. “The better man won,” he told them. “She and Sandy have been married for over forty years.”

Gwen smiled along with Jack but said nothing more. She realised that if Jack and Sandy had been friends in the sixties and were still friends that Sandy must know that Jack didn’t age or die. She wondered why it was that he trusted Sandy with his secret, but she didn’t dare to ask, lest it should ruin Jack’s good mood. She wished she could see the expression on Ianto’s face. It must bother him far more that they existed in such brief moments of Jack’s life. His silence was telling.

They continued the rest of the way in silence, just watching out of the window as the people of Cardiff reacted to the flies with brooms and buckets and leaf blowers. It was a resilient city, this one. As Jack pulled out of the bright sunlight into the underground car park, the air was suddenly full of floating coloured spots. He swung the SUV into its customary space and they piled out; for once without a corpse to unload, alien or otherwise.

As they made their way back into the Hub, Gwen’s mobile began to ring. She slid it out of her pocket and saw that it was Rhys calling. He didn’t usually call in the middle of the day, unless it was urgent. He didn’t call much at all these days, since he had learnt to trust her and understood that she worked ridiculous hours and that no amount of cajoling and nagging could drag her away from the Rift.

“Hi,” she answered, surmising that the call fell into the urgent category.

“Are you watching the news?” Rhys asked.

“No, Rhys,” Gwen replied. “Funnily enough, I’m not. I’m at work.”

There was a paused and she could practically hear Rhys counting to ten. “Those flies,” he said eventually, brushing past her jibe. “They were to do with you, right?”

“Right.”

“Then you ought to watch the news.”

Ianto had taken Jack’s coat and was miming ‘drink?’ to her. She shook her head. “Can you get the news up?” she asked him.

Ianto nodded and headed for his computer. He fired it up and called up the BBC news coverage. Gwen stared at the screen in amazement.

“I’ll speak to you later,” she said into her phone quickly and hung up. “What the hell?”

Ianto turned up the volume and a doom-laden reporter informed them that the hospitals had been flooded with people with insect bites who believe they may have any number of diseases and that religious groups were claiming that the plague of flies had been sent by God.

“And who do they think got rid of the flies?” Jack asked sarcastically, coming to stand behind them, just as the reporter began to talk about the plagues from the bible.

Gwen frowned. “I thought that was locusts?”

“That was the eighth plague,” Ianto explained. “There were ten. The Ten Plagues of Egypt. Exodus.”

“Sent by God?”

“Yep. To convince the pharaohs to let the Isrealite slaves go free.”

Jack snorted. “Nice fairytale.” He reached over and muted the news. “Blood in the Nile? Any number of causes — volcanic ash, algae. Kills the fish. Frogs leave the river — frogs die. More flies. Flies spread diseases.”

“But you can’t explain the death of the firstborns,” Ianto pointed out.

Jack shrugged. “Polluted food — food’s given to the firstborns.”

Gwen looked between to two men in amazement as they fired arguments at each other.

“So many natural phenomena occurring so close together,” Ianto countered. “Bit of a coincidence.”

“Coincidences do happen.”

“Paley’s Watch?”

Jack shook his head. “I’m not having this argument with you again Ianto.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and stalked off towards his office.

Gwen bit her lip. Jack and Ianto rarely argued openly nowadays. However, when she looked across at Ianto, he was smiling. Maybe intellectual discussions were their idea of foreplay. He caught her watching him.

“What?”

Gwen shook her head and looked away. “Nothing.” She smiled. “It’s just — the most intellectually challenging conversation I have with Rhys is the variation between the different types of Cheerio.”

Ianto grinned. “Jack doesn’t like Cheerios,” he said. “He prefers Frosties. He likes the tiger on the box.”


	12. Chapter 12

Claire liked the path lab at this time of night. Some might think it was strange to be so comfortable alone with a freezer full of dead bodies, but she liked the peace and quiet and the lack of interruptions, unless she was called out to a crime scene. Technically, she should have gone home an hour ago but the investigating officer was pushing for the autopsy report and like the mug that she was, she’d volunteered to stay on and finish it.

As she picked up the hands of the corpse to scrape behind the fingernails, she found her eyes straying across the room to her bag again. She could see the corner of the notebook she’d used the night before to write her notes. Ianto Jones had dropped her off outside the Car-Bar at two thirty but he hadn’t spoken much on the drive. He’d only asked her not to discuss anything she’d seen, hinting at the consequences if she did and said that they might be in touch. But she couldn’t stop thinking about the mad world under the Plass.

Examining the fingers made her think of fish fingers, which was her and Tim’s idea of fine dining these days. Actually, she could just fancy some seafood sticks. She started to take a blood sample from the corpse and found her mind wandering again. She was thinking about Tim and about dinner. A lot about dinner, actually, and she probably shouldn’t be thinking about dinner whilst conducting an autopsy. She slid the scalpel through the skin to make the Y-shaped incision in the torso. She was constantly surprised that anyone would let her do the job she did and didn’t think she should be given this level of responsibility when she was incapable of making beans on toast. That got her thinking about food again, then Tim and food, and then kinky food and sex with Tim...

She dragged her mind back to reality as she spread open the skin and started to feel for broken ribs. It was no surprise that her boss wasn’t here. He liked to skip off at five on the dot as often as he could. To be honest, everyone had gone home now since it had gone seven; even the technicians and the lab rats. Must stop calling them that, she thought. Must have more respect for my colleagues.

She growled out loud. Focus Claire, she thought. But she didn’t. She started to think about Torchwood again. About the strange underground base, the three team members and the technology so far advanced of anything she’d ever seen before. A place where they talked about aliens as though they were commonplace. She thought about Gwen, who seemed so normal, just like her, but who took it all in her stride; about Jack, the swaggering Captain, who may or may not be American and definitely wasn’t straight; and Ianto, the guy in the suit who had that chivalrous geek thing going on that, if she were single, she’d really go for. She made a mental note to get Tim back into wearing suits.

She sighed and addressed the matter at hand. She was conducting an autopsy on a middle-aged alcoholic woman with a head wound (a “was-she-pushed-did-she-fall-do-I-care case”) who was found at the bottom of her stairs by a neighbour. She had the ribcage opened up but her eye kept being drawn to the strange tattoo on the upper thigh, which had been lost in cellulite and wrinkles many years ago, and become unreadable. Claire thought it might be a name.

She shook her head and went back to the chest cavity. But her eye was again drawn to the notebook poking out of her bag. She decided. She knew exactly what she was going to do that night. She was going to type up those notes and she was going to deliver them to Torchwood. Somehow.

-*-

Ianto used his shoulder to clamp his mobile against his ear as he stood in the middle of his bedroom and unbuttoned his cuffs. It was a little after eleven, but it seemed as though Gwen was still wide awake.

“I’m just saying,” she continued on the other end of the phone. “They can’t all be from the same planet, right?”

Ianto started to work on his shirt buttons. “Jack seems to think not,” he agreed. “But I’m not sure we’ve got any way of telling.”

“There must be,” she insisted. “There’s something we’re missing, I’m sure of it.”

“Perhaps.” He shifted his phone from hand to hand as he shrugged off his shirt and dumped it into the washing basket in the corner of the room.

“Anyway, I was doing some research.” Ianto recognised that tone of voice. Gwen had got her teeth into something and she wasn’t about to let go. All three of them had such different methods of working, which was perhaps what made them such a good team. Ianto would work through problems methodically, one small step at a time; Jack would brood over them or, more often than not, rush straight in and deal with the consequences later. Gwen, on the other hand, would worry a problem to death until she somehow shook the solution free.

“I was looking up about insects,” she told him. Ianto had no choice but to listen as he tugged off his socks and added them to the washing basket. “And I started off with spiders, right? Because what attracts spiders? Well, they predominantly eat flies. So I’m thinking — large numbers of flies on Earth this year? That’s one possibility, but what about all the others? Moths? They don’t actually eat at all, and when they do, they drink nectar. And earwigs — they’ll eat load of things — plants, fruit, other insects.”

“Been on Wikipedia again Gwen?” Ianto teased gently as he unbuckled his belt with one hand.

“Shut up and listen,” she shot back, in full flow now. “So then I started thinking about how the Rift again — how it’s a gateway to this planet. The whole planet, not just Cardiff. And then there’s the skins and the mosquito bites and none of it makes sense.” She paused, clearly frustrated with her own circular logic. There was an answer there and she knew she was missing it. “Jack knew what the Skyrones were,” she remembered. “Do you think he knows something he’s not letting on?”

“No.” Ianto let his trousers drop to the floor and stepped out of them, folding them as best he could with one hand and dumping them in the chair. “I know he holds back on us sometimes, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know anything more this time.”

“Hmm.” As Ianto held his phone against his shoulder again to remove his watch, he could almost hear the cogs of Gwen’s mind turning. “There’s got to be something that links all this,” she muttered. “There’s got to be.”

“I agree,” Ianto assured her. “But right now, I’m going to have a shower and go to bed.” He walked out of his bedroom and nudged open the bathroom door. The shower head was hissing down a torrent of hot water and the room was full of steam. “I think you should too. You know what they say about sleeping on problems.”

Gwen sighed heavily. “I guess.” She was certain she wouldn’t sleep tonight. “Night then.”

“Goodnight Gwen.” Ianto smiled to himself. “Hope the bed bugs don’t bite.”

There was an unimpressed snort and Gwen hung up. Ianto closed up his mobile and set it down on the shelf behind the sink. He reached down and removed his boxers, before pulling back the glass screen and stepping over the edge of the bath under the steaming water. Jack turned, pushing his wet hair back off his face, and opened his eyes, smiling at Ianto.

“What took you so long?”

Before Ianto had a chance to explain, he found himself pinned back against the tiles, Jack’s lips pressed against his as the water cascaded down over them.

-*-

Neil sat on the steps of the student’s union, worrying his lip and shivering a little in the cool night air. He’d left his jacket in the cloakroom in his hurry to get outside. Tonight was supposed to be the big one — end of exams, end of summer term, end of second year: end of freedom. Next year would be all hard graft to the finishing line and this night was supposed to be about blowing off steam before they all went home to summer jobs and parental constraints, in the hinterland between childhood and adulthood. But Neil just couldn’t get in the mood for a big night out. He kept seeing Millie’s face: the horrified look in her eyes as her skull split in two.

A train rumbled past on the tracks, momentarily drowning out the muffled thump of the music in the club. A couple of girls stumbled out of the door behind him, clutching onto each other for support and laughing hysterically at something. They nearly tripped over Neil as they made their way down the steps but they didn’t seem to notice. He watched as they lurched and staggered away towards a waiting taxi.

Rubbing the goosebumps on his upper arms, he stood up. He was wearing his best pulling polo shirt, the one Eisla said he looked cute in — red with the narrow white stripes — but his heart just wasn’t in it. He’d only had one pint and he already felt sick. He looked back towards the union and could see the bouncer observing him suspiciously. Fuck it; he’d get his jacket in the morning. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, hunched his shoulders and set off for home.

He noticed that there were still a few of dead flies littering the pavement and idly wondered if the swarm had anything to do with what had happened the night before. He was walking fast because he felt vulnerable walking alone at night, even though he’d walked Eisla home often enough, to show her that he was a gentleman; though a fat lot of good that did when she’d rather date egotistical, promiscuous bastards and complain about them to him. He’d made it round the corner when he became aware of a loud humming.

He looked round and his eyes widened as he came face to face with a giant mosquito. The mosquito paused, hovering a few feet in front of him. It stayed there, apparently passive, and Neil stared curiously into the large, black eyes. The mosquito blinked slowly and tilted its head as it bobbed in front of him.

“Millie?” Neil breathed, curiously.

The mosquito rose a few inches and came closer. Neil slowly drew his hand out of his pocket and held out his arm. The mosquito gently settled, brushing against the hairs of his forearm with its hairy legs. This was the most bizarre thing that had ever happened to him. The mosquito danced up his arm and began to move slowly around his head. He’d seen how this had happened and he should have been terrified, but he wasn’t. He somehow knew that Millie wouldn’t harm him.

“Ow.” He yelped suddenly as he felt a pricking sensation on his neck and slapped at it. His hand came away in a mush of blood and fly.

The mosquito let out a keening whine and shot away from him. Neil stood and watched as it zipped away into the night. He frowned as he flicked the remains of the squashed bug off his fingers, shoved his hands back into his pockets and headed for home.


	13. Chapter 13

Jimmy Ramasut’s mobile was ringing. Loudly. Right by his ear. He groped around with his hand, eyes closed, fingers scrabbling at the assorted junk on his bedside table before he grabbed hold of it. He brought it to his ear.

“Hello?” he mumbled. The phone kept ringing. “Hello?”

Oh.

It wasn’t ringing. That was the alarm. He blearily opened one eye, silenced the alarm and flopped back into his pillows. How much had he drunk last night? Stomach churning and head pounding, he rubbed at his temples and opened both eyes, wincing in the grey light of his bedroom. Bright sunlight filtered through the gap beneath the curtains and it was ridiculously hot for seven in the morning. He looked down at his mobile. The answerphone symbol was blinking at him. He dialled his message service and listened to the irate voice on the other end.

_“Jimmy, if you ring me up drunk one more time, I swear to God I am going to report you to the police.”_

Oh Jesus. Jimmy groaned and tossed his phone to one side. Fuck you Ingrid, he thought, as he slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. He glared bitterly at the jumbo box of condoms sitting unused and mocking beside his collection of mouldy mugs. He should have known it would jinx things to buy that many. Idiot.

He stood up cautiously and staggered out onto the landing. Gary wandered out of the bathroom naked, nodding a nonchalant greeting to Jimmy as he passed him. Gary always had the look of the thoroughly shagged first thing in the morning. And he had perfect skin. Unlike Jimmy who, when he caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored medicine cabinet doors as he peed, realised that he was starting to look like his grandmother. Yep, he confirmed, pushing his face into the mirror and trying to stretch his skin back: definitely Nana Phi. It wasn’t helped by people like the nineteen-year-old oik at the Union last night, who’d looked him up and down sceptically and then asked, “Aren’t you a bit old to be at university?”

Kid probably hadn’t even started shaving, Jimmy grumped, as he stripped off and climbed into the shower. The hot water pounding down on his skin felt good. His balls ached. He needed sex. More specifically, he needed sex with Ingrid and that was becoming increasingly unlikely, especially if that guy he’d seen her talking to outside the library turned out to be his replacement. Mr Possible Unknown Rival who looked like a cross between Rupert Everett and that bloke from the vampire movies. Bastard.

His phone was ringing when he got out of the shower. He could hear the A-Team theme trumpeting down the landing. He wrapped a towel around his waist, both because he was more modest than Gary and because he knew he couldn’t compare, and hurried into his bedroom just as the phone stopped ringing. One missed call, from Robin. Why the hell was he calling at this time in the morning?

And then Jimmy remembered. The flies — the press conference. Christ, this hangover was bad. His legs suddenly felt very shaky and he collapsed onto his bed as he called Robin back.

“Where the hell are you?” was the Professor’s snapped greeting.

“I’m sorry, I overslept,” Jimmy apologised hastily. “Are you at the studios?”

“Yes, of course I am!” Robin sounded as though he was about to burst something. “I’m supposed to be on the breakfast news at seven thirty.”

Shit. Jimmy checked his watch and wondered how long it would take him to get over to Llandaff. “I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

Robin huffed irritably on the other end. “I’ll see if I can stall them. Have you got my speech?”

“It’s on my laptop,” Jimmy assured him.

“Good. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

Robin hung up and Jimmy sat deflated on his bed. Fifteen minutes. Right. Standing up, he felt as though he was about to throw up. It turned out to be a belch that tasted of lager and chips and morning breath. Maybe it was time he stopped the crazy nights out and grew up. Maybe. His stomach didn’t agree with the rapid movements necessary to dress in a hurry. He opened the lid of the cage on the end of his desk.

“Morning ladies,” he greeted the two stick insects as he sprayed their bramble leaves with water.

He shovelled a pile of first-year lab reports into his laptop bag and shot down the stairs. No time for breakfast. He stuck a glass under the tap and downed two pints of water in quick succession. Slinging his laptop over his shoulder, he shoved his feet into his shoes and grabbed his helmet from the shelf beside the front door, ramming it onto his head as he left the house and climbed onto his bike. He swallowed an urge to vomit, gunned the engine and roared off down the road.

-*-

Gwen’s morning had been rather traumatic thus far: a spider the size of a dinner plate in her bath and three apocalyptic ministers offering to save her soul as she crossed the Plass. When she got into the Hub, spider safely contained in a Tupperware box, thanks to Rhys (and she really would kill him if he told anyone she’d screamed), she found Ianto emerging from the lower levels wearing a beekeeping hat and spray tanks on his back. He removed the hat and smiled at her.

“Morning.” He waved the hose that was snaking out from the tanks over his shoulder. “Just giving our guests their morning sedatives.” He shrugged the tanks off. “I still don’t know what they all eat. The Skyrones don’t seem to like the bugs Rhys collected for them.”

“Hmm.” Gwen plonked herself down at her desk. “I can’t believe Jack made him do that.”

“Small victories,” Ianto said vaguely. He dumped the tanks on the floor. “Maybe he’ll have something useful to tell us about what these things eat.”

He headed up to Jack’s office and Gwen dragged herself to her feet and followed him. Jack was sitting at his desk staring intently at a television screen. Gwen and Ianto circled round behind him so they could see what he was watching. He was watching the BBC breakfast news, where a man with a bushy moustache was being interviewed.

“Professor Robin Vines,” Jack said by way of explanation, in hushed tones.

“What you need to understand,” the professor was saying. “Is that there’s been an unusually high pollen count this summer and that, combined with a lack of swallows, could lead to an unusually high concentration of insects.”

Jack flicked the television off and stood up. “I think I might go and speak to this guy,” he suggested, wandering out into the workstation area. Gwen and Ianto followed him. “He might be able to explain a little more about insects. We’re no experts.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Gwen blurted. “About the Rift.”

“Yeah?”

Jack turned to look at her. She suddenly realised that Ianto was looking at her too and she’d better make this good. “Well, I was wondering if there could be something on this side of the Rift,” she suggested. “Some sort of source, that’s drawing things through the Rift to it.” She waved her arm around as though she was performing Nellie the Elephant.

Jack and Ianto exchanged amused looks.

“Would you like to do that impression again Gwen?” Jack asked.

She glared at him. “No.”

Ianto smiled. “What’s in the box?” He pointed.

“Oh.” Gwen turned and picked up the lunchbox. “It was in my bath this morning.”

She held up the box and Jack and Ianto peered through the cloudy plastic.

“You didn’t shoot it then?” Jack joked.

“No,” Gwen said, remembering fondly. “I didn’t.”

“Have you seen one before?” Ianto asked Jack.

He shook his head slowly. “Nope.”

“That means Ianto gets to name it,” Gwen teased gently.

“Hmm.” Ianto took the box from her and stared thoughtfully at the spider, with its thick black legs and fat, round body. “I think I’ll call it…Nigel.”

“Nigel?” Jack repeated dubiously.

“Yes,” Ianto replied happily. “Nigel.”

“Ok.” Jack turned away and grabbed his coat off the coat stand. “I’m going to see Professor Vines. You two keep on top of things.”

Before they could make any sort of response, he was gone. Gwen turned to Ianto, baffled. “What does he mean, ‘keep on top of things’?”

Ianto shrugged. “I’m going to find a home for Nigel.”

Gwen shook her head and suddenly noticed the manilla envelope on her desk with ‘Gwen Cooper’ written neatly on the front. She picked it up curiously. “What’s this?” she called over her shoulder to Ianto.

He paused on the steps. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “Someone left it in the Tourist office this morning. I’ve scanned it — it’s just paper.”

He disappeared down into the depths with Nigel. Gwen cautiously slid a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. Inside was a neatly typed, thorough and detailed autopsy report on the barmaid they’d found at the Car-Bar. There was a post-it note on the front which read ‘For your records. Any questions — 0789892048. Claire.’ Gwen smiled as she flipped through the report. She might just be calling that number.

-*-

Arthur liked this suit. This was a good suit. This was an acceptable suit. It was nothing like the shabby M&S bargain buys that the rest of the CID favoured. This suit was the latest Brioni and cost him four thousand pounds. Plus, he was wearing it with a bright green tie and bright green Nike basketball boots. And he looked damn good. He was getting the usual looks as he threaded his way down the dreary police station corridors, dancing his elegant dance around the minions and not spilling a drop of the herbal tea in his mug, despite the file under his arm.

“Morning Mandy,” he greeted her as he swept past and into his office.

“Morning sir,” she replied without looking up from her computer screen. “Punctual as always.”

Arthur dumped the file and the tea on his desk and went back out, leaning against the doorframe to his office. Phones were ringing all down the rows of desks filling the department. Arthur’s office was little more than a windowless box in the centre of the room, but he did at least have an office, with his name and rank on the door, albeit on a cheap plastic slide-in sign that could easily be removed.

“What did I miss?” He smothered a casual yawn with the back of his hand.

“Nothing much.” Mandy finally looked up at him. “Good night last night?”

Arthur grinned and winked. “As always.”

Mandy rolled her eyes. “Cute Torchwood guy, or someone else?”

“I was at Cafe Jazz,” Arthur explained, trying to sound affronted. “There was a great bebop quintet on.” Who was he kidding? “I slept with the trumpeter,” he admitted.

“Right.” Arthur could sense that Mandy wasn’t surprised. She was far too used to him. “Did you see Terry on your way in?”

“No. Why?”

“That kid from the other night is downstairs. Wants to see you. He’s in a bit of state.”

Arthur wrinkled his brow. “Which kid from which night?”

Mandy swivelled round in her chair to face him. “Neil Maloney.”

“Ah.” Arthur frowned. “Why does he want to see me?”

Mandy shrugged as she turned back to her screen. “You obviously made quite an impression.”

“I do make an impression,” Arthur agreed as he went back into his office to fetch his tea. “Where is he?”

“He’s with Terry in one of the interview rooms,” Mandy told him.

Once again, Arthur found himself negotiating the corridors. He found Terry and Neil in the second interview room along the corridor. Terry was leaning back against the wall, shirt already sweaty, and Neil was sitting opposite, hands clasped on the table in front of him and looking every bit as pale and terrified as he had done in the pub garden.

“So, Mr Maloney,” Arthur said as he swept into the room and sat down beside Terry, placing his tea on the table. It was probably cold by now, which happened far too often for his liking. “What can I do for you?”

“I got this bite.” Neil craned his neck and pointed to an angry red lump on it. “I’m really worried.”

Arthur stared at him in confusion. “Well, I suggest you go and see your GP then,” Arthur said. “I’m a policeman.”

“No,” Neil explained. “I mean I’m worried ‘cause Millie had a bite on her neck that night. She kept scratching it and…” He looked up at Arthur miserably. “Mine’s really itchy.”

Arthur took a sip of his tea which was lukewarm. “Why me?” he asked eventually. “Why did you ask for me?”

“You were the only one who gave me your name,” Neil said. “That other lot — they never said who they were.”

“Sounds about right.” Arthur sat back and sucked his top lip under his teeth as he thought about the situation. Eventually, he announced, “I think I know who to call."


	14. Chapter 14

After being directed by a rather attractive secretary and an even more attractive student, Jack finally found his way out of the warren of drab corridors and stifling offices of the biosciences building and into the hot house, which he had been assured was the only other place in the university that Professor Vines could possibly be. The smell of warm, damp earth hit him full in the face as he entered and the humidity left a prickling layer of moisture on his skin. Lining the edges of the hothouse were shelves of tanks, four high, running all around the room, which was around forty metres square. Jack peered into the closest tank and scanned for life before he saw a vibrant red and yellow beetle scuttling for cover in the bottom corner.

The centre of the hothouse was a jungle of exotic plants with a neat path enclosing it. Shrubs and creepers twisted around each other in a smothering embrace but it was the small white plant at the edge that caught his eye. Jack crouched down, reached out a finger and gently lifted up the head, a smile passing over his features as he recognised the flower. Scuffing footsteps came around a corner and Jack looked up to see a young man regarding him warily through dark, almond-shaped eyes.

"Can I help?" he asked.

"Campylocentrum micranthum," Jack announced excitedly, standing up. "I've never seen this one on earth."

The young man shrugged; a lopsided, apologetic smile on his face. "Sorry, I'm not a botanist."

"No matter." Jack shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm looking for Professor Robin Vines - I was told I might find him here?"

The young man's face crinkled into a deeper smile. "'Fraid not. He's probably off doing a book-signing or something. Can I help?"

"That depends." Jack ran an eye up and down the young man. He was average height with dark, spiky hair and olive skin in a dark blue t-shirt, faded jeans that were fraying at the bottom and a pair of red converses. A medi-tab and several braided bracelets encircled his wrists. "Who are you?"

"Jimmy Ramasut." He stuck out a hand. "Post-grad entomologist."

Jack shook his hand warmly. "Jack Harkness, Environmental Health."

Jimmy looked mildly surprised at that but said nothing. "What can I help you with?"

"I saw Professor Vines' interview on the news this morning. I was interested in talking to him, finding out a little more about what he has to say on the subject. As you can imagine, the current situation is troubling my department somewhat at the moment."

"Then you've come to the right place." Jimmy leaned up against an upright, relaxed and completely at home in his environment; the confidence of educated youth. "I helped Robin prepare for the interview. Some might say I wrote his answers..." He paused, a glint in his eye. "But I'd have to strenuously deny it."

“Great.” Jack put his hands on hips. “Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what you think about the situation.”

“I have a few theories.” Jimmy straightened up. “Come to my office, I’ll enlighten you.”

Jack followed Jimmy out of the hothouse and back into the biosciences building. His office was tucked away at the end of a corridor on the third floor. It was small and cramped with a tiny window. The walls were plastered in posters of insects - some photographs, others technical diagrams - and the floor was covered in stacks of files and textbooks. On the desk was a laptop, a phone and a regiment of dirty mugs and glasses.

“Sorry about the mess,” Jimmy apologised as he moved a pile of magazines off a spare chair for Jack to sit in. “Anyway, this is the sample I collected yesterday,” he told Jack, holding up a jam jar full of fly carcasses. “I’ve been analysing their digestive systems, trying to find out how far and wide they came from.”

“Any luck?” Jack asked, taking the jar from him and holding it up to the light, peering in at the flies.

“Still working on it,” Jimmy said, turning on his laptop. “It may get me nowhere.”

“Seen anything like this before?” Jack enquired.

Jimmy gave a short laugh. “Sure,” he said. “They’re _musca domestica_.” He took in Jack’s quizzically raised eyebrow. “Common terrestrial houseflies,” he clarified.

Jack found it hard to conceal his surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” Jimmy confirmed.

“Right.” Jack put the jar back down on his desk. “So what do you think caused the swarm?” There may just be a chance that this wasn’t anything to do with Torchwood at all.

“That’s the question everyone wants to know the answer to,” Jimmy said. “Swarms of houseflies are very rare. Certainly on the scale of yesterday’s anyway.” He leant back in his seat and rubbed his chin. “You’ll find a higher concentration of them around areas where there’s a ripe breeding ground for their larvae, but that’s not technically a swarm.” He called up a map on his laptop screen and twisted it round to show Jack. It was a map of Cardiff, covered in red splodges. “I’ve been mapping the area,” Jimmy explained. “Areas of exposed waste — compost heaps, landfills, open drains.” He shrugged. “With the heat, it’s possible that things are decaying faster, better breeding grounds, but I’m still not sure it would have produced a swarm that large. And why would Cardiff be the only city affected?” He turned to Jack and spread his palms. “Unless it’s just a freak occurrence.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I don’t know.” Jimmy screwed up his hand and thumped it down on the desk. “But I hate that. I hate freak occurrences. I like everything to have a reason.” He grinned sheepishly. “I like facts and theories and scientific evidence.”

“Me too,” Jack agreed.

“Which is why I started to look at finding out where all these flies came from,” Jimmy said. “For a start, a swarm that big, I was certain they couldn’t all have come from Cardiff.” He slumped back in his seat. “Not sure where I’m going to go when I’ve done that, but I would have got there.”

Jack nodded and stood up. He turned around, taking in the posters and the textbooks, the notes and the chaos. “How do you fancy coming and doing some work for me?”

-*-

The way Jimmy looked around the Hub when he first came in reminded Jack of the way he had looked around the TARDIS when he first walked in. A careful amazement, not wanting to seem too awestruck or overexcited that this was the stuff of his boyhood sci-fi fantasies. Jack smugly crossed his arms as Jimmy flicked his eyes around and up at the high ceiling.

“So — not environmental health then?” he said eventually, with a dryness to rival Ianto.

Jack shrugged. “Well, it’s not a million miles away.” He grinned at Jimmy. “Come and meet the gang.” He led Jimmy down into the workstation area where Ianto was sitting at his desk. “This is Ianto Jones.” Jack waved his hand obscurely. “General support.”

Ianto smiled politely at Jimmy but raised an eyebrow at Jack. “And this is..?”

“Jimmy Ramasut,” Jack explained. “Bug expert.”

“Right.” Jack couldn’t fail to notice the half suspicious, half jealous look that Ianto was giving Jimmy. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We had to bring Neil in.”

Jack frowned when he saw the kid from the bar the other night sitting on the worn sofa anxiously chewing his fingernails. “Why?”

“He’s got a bite, like Millie’s,” Ianto explained. “We brought Claire back in too. She’s working on some sort of cure. We hope.”

“I see.” Although Jack could see the sense in it, he was a little irritated that neither Gwen or Ianto had bothered to call and check with him before bringing civilians into the Hub. Just who was the boss around here anyway?

“Oh, and three more skins have been discovered,” Ianto told him, either oblivious to his irritation or not even caring. “Transformed before anything could be done. I’m circulating a story about a psychotic serial killer on the loose.”

Well, Jack supposed, there was such a thing as delegation and if there was anyone in the world he trusted, it was Gwen and Ianto. Gwen to do the right thing and Ianto to do the practical thing. A competent team was the sign of a good team leader, he told himself, trying not to think about how the dwindling size of his team was all his fault. “What’s happened to the skins?” he asked.

“The police have them,” Ianto revealed. “DI Robinson’s in charge of the case.”

“We need those skins back.”

Ianto fixed him with one of his ‘do you think I’m idiot?’ expressions. “I’m working on it.”

“Good.” Jack flashed him a quick smile before turning back to Jimmy. “I was thinking of getting Jimmy to take a look at the Skyrones first.”

“Perhaps he should start with the flies I took from the fly trap at the bar?” Ianto suggested. He shrugged. “Your call.”

He wasn’t trying to be uppity, Jack realised. He was genuinely deferring to him, as the boss. Jack realised that this was an offer in response to his and Gwen’s earlier overriding of his authority in bringing Claire and Neil to the Hub. Jack folded his arms across his chest and scuffed the floor with his toe as he thought about this. “You’re probably right,” he conceded eventually.

Ianto slipped off his stool. “I’ll show him where they are.”

“Thanks.”

Ianto indicated to Jimmy that he should go ahead, and started to follow, but Jack pulled him back. “Run a background check on him as soon as you can, ok?” he asked in a low voice that Jimmy couldn’t hear. Ianto met his eye and gave a quick nod before ushering Jimmy away down to the lower levels.


	15. Chapter 15

The white rat struggled and squeaked in Claire’s gloved hands as she held it steady against the table, pulled up the scruff of its neck and sunk the needle in. It let out an enraged shriek and made a renewed effort to bolt. She grabbed it firmly and popped it back into its tank, slamming the lid down. The rat sat on its haunches in the middle of the Perspex box, looking extremely disgruntled as it began to wash its rumpled fur, front paws swiping over its head.

“So how did you come to work for Torchwood?” she asked Gwen, who was fiddling with the sensors attached to the tank. “What did you do before?”

“I was in the police,” Gwen told her. “Then I met Jack and he changed my life.”

“How do you manage though?” Claire peeled off the gloves and disposed of them along with the needle. “Juggling this with your husband?”

“It was hard to start with,” Gwen admitted. “I had to lie to Rhys all the time and I hated it. But now he knows what I do, he’s very supportive.”

Claire started to attach the tank of anaesthetic gas to the outside of the box. “I expect you think it’s a bit weird,” she said, with a hint of a smile. “I’m nearly thirty and my life’s only just starting.”

“No.” Gwen smiled at her. “I don’t think my life started until I joined Torchwood, even if it is completely mental some days.”

Claire flicked the switch on the gas tank. “Why are there only 3 of you?” she asked as the rat blinked dozily and then slumped into sleep. “It seems like a pretty demanding job.”

Gwen cleared her throat awkwardly. “There were, uh, others,” she revealed awkwardly. “They, um, passed away.”

“Oh.” Claire stared intently at the sleeping rat because she was terrible in these situations. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s ok.” Gwen backed away from the equipment. “You’re ok here, aren’t you? I’m just going to check on Neil...”

“Yes. Fine.” Way to put your foot in it Claire.

“Great.”

As Gwen left the autopsy bay, she passed Jack on his way down. They didn’t speak but Jack briefly touched her shoulder as they passed and she smiled at him, which seemed to be the way they communicated here Claire had observed. Jack came and leant on the railings.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

Claire ran a hand through her hair and tried to focus, even though she found Jack intimidating. “I need more time,” she said. “To work on a cure.”

“How much time does he have?”

Claire shook her head. “Not much.” She impressed herself with her command of the technology as she brought up a chart on the wall. She pointed at it. “This is the rate at which Neil’s cells are mutating.”

Jack studied the chart for a moment. “That’s not good.”

“No. But...” Claire wondered at the logic of proposing this theory. She could be completely wrong. On the other hand, she could be right. “From what I can tell, the transformation process begins in the brain,” she began. “I’ve induced a coma in the rat and it seems like that’s paused the process.” She tapped a few keys and brought up the rat’s bioscans. “Only thing is, I don’t know if he’ll wake up from it. Or if I’ll ever find a cure.” She sighed again and shrugged. “But if we leave him as he is, he’ll die.”

“Good work.” Jack nodded thoughtfully.

“I’m going to try and bring the rat out of its coma in a bit,” she told him, secretly pleased by his praise, even if it wasn’t terribly enthusiastic. She’d seen enough of Jack Harkness to realise that his praise was rare but sincere.

“Ok.” Jack straightened up. “We’ll all meet to discuss when you’ve got results together. How long do you need?”

Claire thought about this. She had to leave the rat under long enough for the coma to establish itself, but it was such a small animal that if she left it under too long, its heart could give out. She wasn’t a vet and didn’t really know what dosage of barbiturates to safely give a rat. “Thirty minutes?” she suggested.

Jack nodded again. “Ok.” And then he disappeared. Claire allowed herself a small triumphant smile before going back to work on Neil’s blood sample. She had to keep reminding herself of the sense of urgency. She had never really worked under this sort of pressure before. Occasionally the pathologists were hassled by investigating policeman to produce results quickly, but at the end of the day, her subjects were already dead. Here, a human being’s life hung in the balance, all depending on whether or not she could find an answer. If she thought about that too much, she might scream so instead she focused on the viral life form at the end of the microscope.

-*-

Neil was sitting on the sofa with a milky cup of tea clasped between his hands. He liked his tea weak and milky and always had done. It was the way his mother gave it to him when he was a kid. Ianto, the bloke in the suit, had looked at him strangely when he’d asked for it like that, but he’d made it anyway. It was strange having tea served to him by a man in a posh suit but it wasn’t the strangest thing about all this. It was probably too hot for tea, but down here it was cool enough and it was more comforting than anything. Neil was staring straight ahead because when he looked up he felt a sort of inverted vertigo which made his stomach churn.

His stomach was churning enough as it was. Probably because he was panicking and generally unsettled but also because he thought he might be feeling ill. His eyes were sore and the bite on his neck was simultaneously throbbing from where he’d scratched it raw and itching maddeningly. He let a hand stray to his forehead, which was burning up, and a shower of flaky skin drifted down in front of his eyes, catching in his eyebrows and lashes, tickling his cheeks and dusting the collar of his navy polo shirt.

Gwen came up some stairs and walked over to him. “How are you doing?” she asked as she sat down beside him.

Neil shrugged. “Been better.”

She seemed as though she was about to say something else when a loud screech above them cut her off. Neil looked up and saw what appeared to be an enormous bird swooping across the cavernous ceiling. His eyebrows shot up and for a moment he forgot what was happening to him.

“What is that?” he asked, tilting his head back and following the progress of the creature as it came to perch on a rail, high up above them. Hang on, that head... That wasn’t a bird.

“Pteranodon,” Gwen answered.

“Pteranodon?” Neil repeated. “As in, a dinosaur?” He’d had a Tyrannosaurus Rex toy when he was a kid. He used to make it fight with his Action Man. On his one and only trip to London as a child, his Mum had taken him to the Natural History museum and all he’d wanted to see was the dinosaurs.

“Well,” Gwen said. “Ianto’s pretty picky about us calling it a pterosaur, but yeah.”

Neil studied the pterosaur in amazement. “How did it get here?”

“The universe is full of wonders.”

Neil got the impression that Gwen was being deliberately vague. In any other situation, where he wasn’t worried about his life ending, he might have pushed the topic. “I’m going to end up like Millie did, aren’t I?” he mused gloomily.

“No.” Gwen rubbed his arm. “Of course you won’t. We’ll find a solution,” she told him. “We always do.”

“Millie turned into that thing in less than an hour,” Neil remembered. “Why am I taking so long?”

“Any number of reasons,” Gwen suggested. “Different mosquito, less strength, maybe you’ve got a stronger immune system, maybe Millie was ill anyway, or had a weaker immune system.” She smiled at him again. “Or maybe you’re just lucky.”

“Maybe.” Neil sighed and rested his head against the back of the sofa. He squeezed his eyes closed to shut out this mad world. He always wondered what it would feel like knowing you didn’t have long to live. He always thought he’d go mad and start maxing out his credit cards or telling everyone what he really thought of them, or maybe even run naked down the street. In reality, he just wanted to curl into a ball and cry. He’d never even get another shag. He wondered if Gwen would shag him, one last time, if he asked. He’d noticed her wedding ring though, when she put her hand on his leg. Just his luck.

-*-

Having had a quick glance over the flies from the flytrap and finding nothing unusual about them, Jimmy was now accompanying Jack down to see something he had described as Skyrones. Jimmy was having to take deep breaths to keep himself from giggling at the ridiculous situation he now found himself in. That morning, he’d expected to spend the afternoon alternating between playing Solitaire, browsing the internet and maybe writing a few paragraphs of his thesis if he felt inspired. Now he found himself following a charismatic American into the depths of an underground sci-fi based from which he may or may not return. He felt a brief flash of fear at the thought that Jack might be one of those sociopathic maniacs, charming but completely insane, but soon pushed it away. Some innate feeling told him that Jack Harkness wasn’t that sort of a man. Ianto Jones, on the other hand, Jimmy could easily imagine as a ruthless assassin, especially if someone forgot to use a coaster.

“They’re in here.” Jack leant up against a door and opened it a fraction. “We gotta go in quick so they don’t get out.”

Jimmy nodded. “Ok.”

Jack opened the door and they both squeezed quickly through the gap. Jimmy was only barely aware of him slamming it shut behind them. For a few minutes he couldn’t formulate any words at all as he watched the brightly coloured dragonflies flitting about in the arching ceiling above them. He felt as though a whole new world had just been unlocked for him.

“We don’t even know what they eat,” Jack said, striding forward. He raised an arm and one of the Skyrones flew down and brushed against it before darting off again. “Well, we do, we just can’t find a substitute. Their colours are fading,” he added sadly.

Jimmy stood with his hands in pockets and stared up at them, fascinated. “I could dissect one,” he suggested. “Find out a bit more about them?”

“I don’t know.” Jack turned in slow circles, gazing up at the insects. “They form pretty close family groups.”

This was a new point of view to Jimmy. So far in his research he’d operated from the assumption that you could kill and dissect as many insects as you liked and there would still be plenty more alive to study. The idea of an insect forming a close family bond was radical and potentially just as fascinating.

“We could sedate one then?” he offered. “I’d just love to get a closer look.”

Before Jack could answer, the A-Team theme blasted out from Jimmy’s pocket, sending the Skyrones skittering up to farthest corners. He pulled an apologetic face to Jack as he took it out, wondering how in hell they had signal down here.

“Robin, hi,” he answered.

“Where are you?” the professor snapped, not for the first time that day.

“I, uh, just had to pop out,” Jimmy lied awkwardly.

“I need those essays,” Robin said brusquely. “Have you marked them yet?”

“Yes, sorry.” This wasn't something Jimmy had considered when he’d just packed everything up and gone with Jack. “They’re on my desk.”

“Well can you bring them down here?”

“I’m sort of busy,” Jimmy said. “I’m doing some very important research. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

He hung up to find Jack smirking at him. “Does the good Prof do any of his own work?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Some.”

Jack laughed again. “So.” He turned back to the Skyrones. “How do you propose to sedate one of these things?”

“Diluted ethyl acetate?” Jimmy suggested.

Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah, I think that might just make them sick.”

“What do you suggest then?”

Jack put his hands in his pockets and thoughtfully assessed the situation. “We catch one, and use anesthetic.” He turned to Jimmy with a grin and patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll fetch you a net.”

-*-

“Ok, Dr Turner.” Jack plonked himself down in his chair at the head of the table. “Show us what you’ve got.”

Gwen glanced across the table at Neil who looked like he was about to be sick. Claire stood at the opposite end of the room to Jack, wielding the control for the screen above the conference table. Ianto was out collecting more skins and Jimmy, according to Jack, was bagging himself a Skyrone. Neil had chewed the fingernail on his right index finger so far down that it was bleeding and he was now sucking on the end of it.

“First I injected the rat with the virus, which I took from Neil’s blood sample,” Claire explained. “The first one died. Seems like it didn’t have the requisite body mass for the transformation to take place. The second rat.” Here she brought up a 3D representation of the rat. “I induced a coma in shortly after the transformation process began. I monitored its vitals and this appeared to pause the process. I then brought it out of the coma and the process re-started.” She swallowed and darted a quick glance at Neil before looking back at Jack. “Given the rate at which Neil’s cells are transforming, it seems like the only solution, to allow me to work on curing this thing.”

She finished, blinking, surprised by the rapidity of her own conclusions, and quickly took a seat beside Gwen. Jack stared thoughtfully at the slowly rotating image of the rat. Then he looked at Neil.

“What do you think?”

Neil balked. “Me?”

“It’s your life,” Jack reminded him gently. “Your decision.”

He nodded, realising. “Right.”

“You understand the options?”

“I think so.”

“We leave you and you’ll turn into a mosquito like Millie,” Jack said slowly. “Or we put you into a coma whilst Claire works on a cure. But of course, there is a chance she may never find a cure, and you won’t wake up.”

Neil picked at his bloody finger. “Can I call my Mum?”

Jack shook his head. “There isn’t time.” Gwen knew that what Jack really meant was that he didn’t want Neil to tell his mum what was happening. A few days ago he might have thought himself a man of the world but right now he was just a frightened little boy who wanted his mum.

“This coma thing,” Neil said eventually. “How does it work?”

“Claire?” Jack deferred to the pathologist.

“We use a strong dose of barbiturates,” she explained, and Gwen could tell she was unused to dealing with live patients. “They shut down all but the vital functions of the brain.”

Neil stared down at his hands and Gwen saw his shoulders twitch and his breath shudder, and she realised he was fighting tears. “Ok,” he croaked eventually, reaching up to rub the tears out of his eyes with his fingers. “Put me in a coma.”

-*-

Jack tactfully absented himself from the small medical bay and left Neil alone with Claire and Gwen. Neil was wearing a set of loose-fitting scrubs and sitting on the edge of the bed whilst Claire prepared the barbiturates to put him under. Claire had quietly expressed her doubts to Gwen about her lack of experience in putting in IV lines or generally managing an induced coma, since her last experience dealing with living humans had been eight years ago, when she was junior doctor in Sheffield. Gwen had grimly assured her that even that was more experience than the rest of them had and that she was sure she would be fine. To give her credit, Claire hadn’t complained, but simply taken it in her stride and disappeared to brush up from some of Owen’s medical textbooks that were shelved in the autopsy bay. After a quick perusal of the relevant section, here she was preparing the correct dosage and drip lines.

“Ok,” she said. “I think I’m ready.”

Gwen smiled at Neil, in what she hoped was a reassuring way, as he slowly swung his legs round to lie back on the bed. Claire pulled down the top of his scrubs to reveal his collarbone and insert the IV line.

“Ready?” she asked.

Neil nodded and Gwen could see tears glistening again in his eyes. She couldn’t blame him. She was certain that she would not be stoic and magnanimous in the face of death. She’d be kicking and screaming all the way. Or perhaps you never could know until you got there. Something compelled her to grab hold of Neil’s hand as she perched on the edge of the bed.

“I’m here sweetheart, ok?” she said. “And I’ll be here when you wake up too.”

Neil gave her a weak smile. “Thanks.”

Gwen turned to Claire and nodded.

“Ok Neil,” Claire said. “I want you to start counting from one.” Neil did so and Claire turned the tap and let the anaesthetic begin to flow.

“Five, six...”

Neil stopped talking and his grip on Gwen’s hand relaxed. She squeezed his hand and fought back tears of her own as she watched him lying there, his skin pale and flaky. Claire set about getting him hooked up to all the machines that would monitor him and keep him alive whilst he slept. If she was daunted by the task that lay ahead, it didn’t show. Gwen wondered if she would ever see Neil alive again.


	16. Chapter 16

Ianto drummed his fingers on the edge of the bar, his eyes scanning round the other drinkers. For a Friday night it was quiet, but he suspected the recent influx of insectoid life may have had something to do with that. It was a nice bar; one that Ianto had dreamt about frequenting when he was growing up. The decking outside the open doors looked out over Penarth Marina and he could hear the yacht rigging clinking in the twilight. The chairs, tables and bar stools were all silver chrome and modern art adorned the walls. THere were plush leather sofas and elegantly curving light fittings. Everything behind the bar gleamed and the barman was young and fit. The clientele were young too, with cocktails and iPhones and expensive shoes.

As the son of an unemployed steel worker and a school dinner lady from an estate in a not-so-nice part of town, Ianto had dreamt of their lives when he was a teenager. Job in a skyscraper, nice suits, fast car, penthouse apartment, closing deals, drinking at bars like this on a Friday night; a string of beautiful women. He gave a wry smile at the thought. Funny how life changed you. How your priorities changed; how your idea of happiness and love changed: how everything changed. Wasn't that what Jack was always saying?

Ianto ran a finger through the condensation on his glass of lager and checked his watch again. Arthur was late. He had chosen to meet here and Ianto could see why. It seemed like Arthur's kind of place. He'd done the research: Arthur Gerald Robinson III, son of General Sir Arthur Gerald Robinson II. Harrow educated, joined the Army at eighteen, rose quickly through the ranks due as much to his capabilities on the battlefield as to his family name, discharged at thirty-one for 'differences of opinion', all hushed up by the authorities for the sake of his father's reputation. So well covered up, in fact, that even Torchwood clearance hadn't allowed Ianto to find the real reason for his expulsion from the Army.

Arthur then spent a year travelling in East Asia before returning to the UK two years ago and joining the police. The controversy hadn't ended - according to the reports Ianto had found, he was considered something of a maverick - but he was apparently good at his job. He was single with no dependents. Ianto slipped a hand into his pocket and fingered the small white pill. And after tonight, Detective Inspector Arthur Gerald Robinson III would be as insignificant to him as the rest of the drinkers in the bar.

"Sorry I'm late." Arthur's voice behind him dragged Ianto out of his thoughts. "Got caught up at the station."

Ianto turned to look at him and gave a slight smile. "That's ok. Can I get you a drink?"

"Thanks. I'll have a JD and Coke."

Ianto ordered, trying not to raise his eyebrows when the barman told him the price. The place was ridiculously expensive and the music was too loud. Christ - he really had changed. Arthur raised his glass and Ianto politely touched his pint against it.

"Our first date." Arthur gave a lopsided grin.

Ianto frowned. "That's, uh, not what this is," he stammered.

Arthur kept the teasing grin on his face. "Shame." He raised his glass to his lips and took a sip. "Knew it was too good to be true."

Ianto watched him closely, unsure if he was joking. In some ways, Arthur was just like Jack. Confident, handsome, flirtatious and brutally good at what he did. And yet, in other ways, he was nothing like him. He didn’t have that…that certain something that Jack had. Jack’s ancient eyes were both wise and full of childlike wonder; Arthur’s were cold and sceptical. Plus, Arthur was shorter and his hair was nowhere near as perfect as Jack's. And he didn't have the baby blue eyes or the jaw line or... Ianto caught himself and focused, taking a sip of lager.

"What is this about then?" Arthur was watching him warily now.

"Just an update," Ianto lied calmly. "On the situation."

"How courteous," Arthur remarked sarcastically.

Ianto gave a casual shrug. "There's a high probability there'll be more bodies, more 999 calls. We need someone on the inside to refer them to us, hush it up, calm people down, you know?"

Arthur nodded, still suspicious. He looked out at the lights shimmering on the surface of the dark sea. "And what about the rest of the city?"

Ianto quickly and subtly dropped the tiny pill into Arthur's drink before he turned back. "They'll move on," he said. "Forget. They always do."

Arthur slowly swivelled his head back round to look at Ianto. He put a hand around his glass and Ianto stared at it, chewing his lip. Arthur swilled the liquid around in it, but kept it resolutely on the bar. _Just drink it_ , Ianto willed him silently, taking a gulp of his beer to steady himself.

"Are you going to tell me exactly what is going on?" Arthur asked.

Ianto tore his eyes away from Arthur's glass and gave another shrug. "We don't know yet. We're working on it."

The confident - borderline smug - smile was back. "Torchwood defeated?" He nudged the glass from side to side but didn't drink it.

Ianto felt a little irked by that, thinking of all the things they had seen and done in order to defend this city. He bitterly swallowed down a big mouthful of lager. "No. Like I said, we're working on it."

"Neil?"

"He's still alive," Ianto assured him. "Claire's induced a coma in him and she's analysing his blood." Ianto lowered his voice, aware of how close the barman was standing, obliviously polishing glasses and hanging them on the racks under the spirits. "She needs to work out what's happening to them in order to reverse the process." Ianto drained the last of his beer. "Hopefully." He licked the froth from his upper lip and felt a startled heat in his cheeks when he realised that Arthur was staring at his mouth. He licked his lips again, self-consciously, cursing himself as Arthur smirked, and stood up hurriedly. He glanced down at Arthur's drink - he was yet to take even a sip.

"I'm just going for a piss," Ianto mumbled, pointing towards the toilets.

"I'll be waiting right here." Arthur ran a finger around the rim of his glass as he smiled, but still didn't drink. Ianto flicked his eyes down at it again before spinning on his heel and striding towards the toilets.

As Ianto stood at the urinals, with their startling blue LED lights flashing down the back made to look like cascading water, he half expected Arthur to follow him in. Ianto carefully dried his hands and took a deep breath. He hadn't felt this flustered since he first met Jack. And before that Lisa. Only on those occasions it was a good feeling. This - this was just horribly uncomfortable and all he wanted to do was go back to the Hub.

True to his word, Arthur was still sitting at the bar waiting for Ianto when he emerged from the toilets. Ianto noted with relief that his drink was half gone now and he relaxed a little. He slid back onto his seat.

"I should buy you another beer," Arthur offered.

"I'm fine thanks." Ianto cleared his throat and smoothed down his tie. "I need to keep a clear head really. Never know what might happen."

"I'll have to owe you then." The statement should have been perfectly innocent but Arthur managed to imbue it with undertones that only served to increase Ianto's discomfort.

"Actually, I should probably go," Ianto decided, standing up. Jack would still be at the Hub, supervising Claire and Jimmy. They could have a coffee together, maybe more. And even if not, it was still where he wanted to be.

"You could come back to mine?" Arthur suggested, finishing off the end of his drink. "Night cap?"

"Oh, I..." Ianto trailed off and looked at Arthur’s empty glass. The retcon would kick in soon. They probably wouldn’t even make it back to his place before he passed out. “Alright.”

Arthur gave another of those unnerving smiles. “Great.” He stood up and gestured that Ianto should go first. “After you.”

-*-

It was only a short walk to Arthur’s place — an elegant new apartment building overlooking the marina. Ianto was jittery as he followed Arthur into the lift in the lobby. The policeman was fighting the effects of the retcon remarkably well. He didn’t seem in the least bit drowsy. As the lift hummed quietly upwards, Ianto felt his stomach grumble irritably. He looked at his watch. It had gone ten and he hadn’t eaten yet, which would explain it. He could grab a pizza from the Turkish place round the corner, he thought, as the lift stopped and the doors hissed open.

Arthur had the penthouse. He had the life that Ianto had once wanted. He put his key in the lock and flung open the door, striding into the flat and throwing his keys onto the coffee table. Ianto stepped in after him, shut the door and tried not to gape. A large window gave a panoramic view of the marina below, with its rows of cruisers and sailing boats. The whole place was open plan. The bed was on a mezzanine level to the right; to the left was what Ianto assumed was the bathroom. The kitchen gleamed and the furniture was sparse.

Arthur picked up a remote. “Music?” He didn’t wait for Ianto’s answer before turning on a sleek sound system built into the wall. Soft music drifted out from the surround sound speakers concealed around the room and Ianto recognised the opening bars of Carly Simon’s _You’re So Vain_. Arthur put the remote down and swaggered over to the kitchen area. Ianto fought the urge to roll his eyes.

“Good ol’ Carly,” Arthur said, shedding his jacket and flinging it over the back of an armchair that looked like the least comfortable seat Ianto had ever seen.

“Yeah.” Ianto had an album of her songs. Jack had put it on one night, claiming that this song was, in actual fact, about him. He’d apparently dated Carly in the early seventies. Ianto wasn’t sure if he had been joking or not — he never was — and there wasn’t time to ask before Jack fixed him with a big grin and started singing along to _Nobody Does it Better_. He smiled at the memory.

“Drink?”

“Could I have a coffee?” Why wasn’t Arthur asleep yet, Ianto wondered? Perhaps he should have gone for a double dose. He stepped a little further into the apartment, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Coffee?” Arthur queried. “Sure you don’t want something stronger?”

“Might have a long night ahead,” Ianto justified.

“Indeed?” The smirk again. “Sorry, no coffee on my watch.”

Arthur bent down and opened a mini bar beneath his surface. He perused an impressive array of whiskeys that dwarfed Ianto’s own collection, before settling on one and pouring two glasses. He held one out to Ianto, who stepped closer and took it.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Ianto wasn’t quite sure how to react when Arthur set down his own glass and started to unbutton his shirt. He said nothing but stared down into his whiskey. He could see Arthur’s movements reflected in the amber liquid. Arthur let his shirt drop the floor and reached for his belt. Ianto’s eyes widened.

“Um…” he began, but wasn’t sure how to continue. _What the fuck are you doing?_ sprung to mind, but he said nothing.

Arthur proceeded to remove his jeans and his underwear, until he was standing completely naked in front of Ianto. Ianto swallowed and stared over Arthur’s shoulder, but he could see the reflection of Arthur’s bare backside in the big window. He suddenly thought that he would miss curtains if he lived here. Arthur held his arms out and smirked again. _Coming around Again_ was playing now.

“I didn’t…” Ianto trailed off.

“Why did you think I invited you back?” Arthur asked.

Ianto dropped his gaze to Arthur’s crotch, blushed and snapped his eyes back up again. He wondered if he should order a Hawaiian pizza, but maybe that was a little predictable. They did a nice seafood topping at that place — prawns and everything — maybe he’d go for that for a change. _Focus Ianto_ , he told himself.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “I don’t, uh...I don’t want to have sex with you.” Strange — Ianto had never found himself in the position of having to turn down sex with anyone before. He suspected Arthur hadn’t either, though for entirely different reasons.

“Why not?” Arthur’s tone was flat and Ianto couldn’t read his expression.

“I’m, well, I’m sort of seeing someone,” Ianto explained hesitantly.

“Sort of seeing someone?” Arthur repeated sarcastically. “Sounds committed.” He seemed totally unconcerned by his nudity.

“Sorry.” Ianto coughed and put down the whiskey on the kitchen surface. “I should go.” He headed for the door.

“I wonder if Jack would show so much restraint,” Arthur called after him.

Ianto turned and looked at him - arms outstretched and muscles rippling. He could have sex with Arthur. He’d retconned him — no one would remember it but him. Jack would never know. Even if he did, would he care? Would Jack have to be asked twice before screwing Arthur against his penthouse window? Ianto suddenly realised that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t about cheating on Jack. It wasn’t about whether Jack was being faithful to him. He honestly didn’t want to sleep with anyone else.

“This isn’t about what Jack would do,” he said firmly. “I’m Ianto, and this is what I’m going to do. Goodnight Arthur.”

He left Arthur with a half irritated, half curious expression on his face, grasped the handle of the front door and left the apartment. Standing outside, Ianto took a deep breath and headed for the stairs. Yes, he decided — I’ll go for the seafood pizza.


	17. Chapter 17

Ianto didn’t go back to the Hub. Feeling a little shaken up, he bought his pizza, ate it at his flat with a glass of Pinot Grigo and crawled into bed a little after eleven, falling asleep almost as soon as he did so. He woke up with an unsettled feeling in his stomach; something in the back of his mind, though he wasn’t quite sure what. He showered thoughtfully, dressed in a clean suit, poured himself a coffee and left his flat.

Pointing his keys at his car, he saw the orange side lights flash as the central locking clicked open. It was at that moment that Arthur stepped out from behind the wall. Ianto didn't react — it could be a coincidence and he didn’t want to give anything away.

“Morning.” Arthur had his hands on his hips, his expression so blank that Ianto couldn’t tell if he recognised him or not.

“Morning,” Ianto responded, trying to keep his own voice as neutral.

“Here’s a tip,” Arthur began and Ianto’s heart sank. “If you’re going to drug someone’s drink, don’t stare at it so much — tends to make them suspicious.”

Shit. Ianto swallowed and blinked rapidly. “How did you know where I live?” Not the most important issue right now, but it was the first question that came to mind.

“I’m a policeman,” Arthur reminded him. “I looked it up. _You_ have a criminal record,” he added, almost gleefully.

“Only for a few more years,” Ianto pointed out tetchily. “It gets wiped when I turn thirty.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair. Jack was going to be mad as hell when he found out Ianto had fucked up with the retcon.

Arthur folded his arms and leant against the wall. “A copy of FHM and a packet of polos?” he queried with amusement. “Classy.”

Ianto shrugged and walked towards his car, pulling open the driver’s door. Arthur followed.

“Does Jack always send you to do his dirty work?” he asked.

“No.” Ianto snapped round to face him. “And if I were you, I’d keep the hell away. Jack won’t be as gentle as I was.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow and gave half a laugh. “I’ll bet.”

Ianto made to get into his car, but Arthur wrapped strong fingers over the top of the door and held it open. He looked at Ianto again with those mocking eyes.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Ianto wrenched the door out of Arthur’s grasp and slammed it shut. He took a step closer to the policeman, using his greater height to tower threateningly over him. “Do yourself a favour,” Ianto growled. “Leave me alone, leave Torchwood alone, and we’ll leave you alone. Keep asking questions and we will wipe your memories.” Ianto was shocked by the coldness in his voice.

Arthur stared into Ianto's eyes with an intensity which caused him to pull quickly back. He hastily got into his car, slammed the door shut and started the engine. As he pulled away and roared out of the small car park, he kept one eye on Arthur in the rear view mirror. He simply stood with his hands on his hips watching Ianto’s car disappear down the road and out of sight.

-*-

Jack could smell the first wafts of Ianto’s coffee brewing as he came out of his office. He hadn’t realised that Ianto was in. He buttoned his cuffs as he made his way down the stairs, sauntered up behind Ianto and put a hand on his shoulder. Surprisingly, Ianto jumped violently at Jack’s touch. He looked round and flashed a weak smile at Jack.

“Sorry,” Jack said, kissing him. “Didn’t mean to make you jump.”

“That’s usually my trick,” Ianto agreed as he turned his attention back to the coffee.

Jack rubbed Ianto’s shoulder affectionately, before letting go and leaning back against the surface beside him, arms folded across his chest.

“Thought you were coming back here last night,” Jack said. “I missed you." Then he grinned and teased, "Or did you have your wicked way with Inspector Robinson?”

Jack thought he saw Ianto flinch, but he was probably just sensitive about being teased. It was sweet in a strange, twenty-first-century way. “No,” he replied eventually. “I was just tired.”

Jack could detect something in Ianto’s demeanour this morning that was odd. He congratulated himself on noticing, which he thought should earn him some points, but he wasn’t able to say what was wrong, which would probably count against him. Maybe Ianto was just tired. He didn’t get much sleep these days and Jack often forgot how much sleep normal people needed. He realised that he was staring and Ianto looked up curiously, meeting his eye. Jack held his gaze for a second longer than usual and opened his mouth to say something when his mobile rang. He pulled it out and checked the screen.

“It’s Jimmy,” he told Ianto as he answered it. “Hello?”

“I’m upstairs,” Jimmy said. “Can you let me in?”

“Sure, I’ll be up in a minute.” Jack hung up and pocketed the phone. “You’d better make a couple of extra coffees,” Jack told Ianto. “We’re having a team meeting.”

“Oh.” Ianto looked down at the two mugs he’d made for him and Jack. He usually waited for Gwen to get in before making her coffee, since it had gone cold one too many times. “I left Jimmy’s background check on your desk by the way,” he added. “He’s clean. Only thing of note is his epilepsy, hence the medi-tag.” Ianto gestured at his wrist to illustrate his point. “But he takes his medication for it.”

“Great, thanks.” Jack patted Ianto on the shoulder again. “I’ll go and get him.”

Jack went upstairs and discovered that Claire had arrived as well. He escorted them downstairs and couldn’t help noticing that Claire seemed strangely nervous around him. Intimidated by his ruthless charm, no doubt. His brain supplied Ianto's sarcastic dismissal of that thought and Jack smiled to himself. Knowing his boyfriend so well that he could hold a hypothetical conversation with him inside his own head was certainly something new.

Ianto appeared as they were making their way up to the boardroom. “Coffee?” he enquired politely.

Claire nodded. “Yes please.”

“No thanks,” Jimmy said. “Can I have a glass of water though?”

Ianto exchanged a look with Jack, but dutifully disappeared to fetch the drinks. He was probably wondering how the hell anyone could survive working a day here without caffeine. Jack had often thought that Ianto might be dangerously addicted to caffeine, but who was he to talk? Ianto didn’t have many vices.

Gwen arrived as Jack was getting Claire and Jimmy settled in the boardroom. Jimmy had apparently been working all night on the information he’d collected from the Skyrones and was setting up his laptop to show them. 

“Ok kids,” Jack said, taking his seat at the head of the table, with Gwen and Ianto either side of him. “First — updates — Claire?”

“Well,” she began. “I made some good progress yesterday, studying the skins and Neil’s blood sample, but what I could really do with now is a one of the transformed humans to look at. Just to complete the picture. It might help me to find a cure.”

“How is Neil?” Gwen asked.

“Fine,” Jack told her. “Well, as fine as he can be. No changes at any rate.”

“What about his family?” Gwen asked tentatively. “Should we tell them where he is?”

“No,” Jack decided firmly.

“Why not?” Gwen persisted. “Do we actually know anything about him? He’s probably got friends and family missing him.”

“Neil Richard Maloney,” Ianto recited, reading from a pad in front of him. “Twenty years old, born December 5th 1987 in Manchester. Only child, parents divorced. Just finished his second year of a geography course at Cardiff University. Current address 31 Robert Street, Cathays, Cardiff. His housemate Ryan 'Turtle' Jones reported him missing this afternoon. He told them that Neil 'left the union without them last night' and they haven’t seen him since. Some friends. His mother calls him every Sunday night so she hasn’t missed him yet. Hasn’t seen his father since he was five.”

“See?” Jack stared at Gwen defiantly.

“Good,” Gwen murmured. “Good.”

“Ianto.” Jack turned to him. “Any more insect reports?”

“I’ll start going through them when we’re finished,” Ianto replied.

“Ok.” Jack pointed at Jimmy. “Jimmy — I believe you have something to show us?”

“Yes.”

Jimmy had plugged his laptop into the boardroom screen and he opened up a PowerPoint presentation. Jack heard a small snort beside him and he realised that Ianto probably viewed the technology as primitive, but to Jimmy it was pretty sophisticated. Jack kicked Ianto under the table and gave him his best _behave yourself_ glare. Ianto simply smirked into his coffee.

Jimmy called up an image of a Skyrone, which was surprisingly good, considering he must have constructed it himself. You wouldn’t find an image of a Skyrone on Google. “They’re actually fairly similar to dragonflies in their anatomical make-up,” Jimmy revealed. He scrolled through a list of ways in which the two were similar and ways in which they differed. “But the brain is much larger.” He showed them a CGI image of the insects head, cutaway to reveal the brain, which he’d labelled. “And I was fascinated by the colours on the outer shell, which seem to have some - albeit limited - chameleon properties.” He flicked through a series of images from his study of the insect the day before. “I took blood samples and stool samples from this one,” he explained. “I’d like to study them today.”

“Good work,” Jack told him when he’d finished. “But there’s plenty to be done.” He stood up. “Gwen, Ianto — keep an eye out for reports of giant mosquitoes.” They nodded. Jack checked his watch. It was eight thirty. “We’ll meet back here for lunch.”


	18. Chapter 18

As they crossed the short space between the secret door into the Hub and the SUV, Gwen was surprised when Ianto held out the car keys to her.

“Do you want to drive?” he asked.

“Oh.” She blinked. “Yes. Please.”

She took the keys from him and headed for the driver’s door. She couldn't remember a time when Jack had ever offered to let her drive unless he’d been otherwise occupied. Or dead. Gwen liked gunning the powerful engines of the SUV now and then. Plus, Ianto was better on directions. When she turned the key in the ignition, they were treated to a sudden blast of Loudon Wainwright’s _Hard Day on the Planet_.

“Sorry.” Ianto hastily switched off the stereo. “Sometimes I listen to music when I’m on my own.”

“That’s ok.” Gwen backed out of the space and drove off across the car park. “Leave it on if you like. It’s quite appropriate.”

“You know it?” Ianto asked in surprise, switching the stereo back on and turning down the volume.

“My Dad has that CD,” Gwen confessed as they emerged into the bright sunlight.

“I doubt my father did,” Ianto murmured, turning his face away to stare out of the window.

Gwen was tempted to push the topic, since Ianto very rarely spoke about his family, but she sensed it was not something he wanted to dwell on. For one thing, his use of the past tense when referring to his father suggested it could be a sensitive topic. Ianto, Gwen had learnt, was a man who opened up in his own time. “Only listens to it when he’s feeling introspective,” she continued brightly, to keep on lighter topics. “Mostly it was David Bowie or Pink Floyd or The Who.”

“You realise you’re listing my CD collection?” Ianto said dryly.

Gwen laughed. Of course she should have known what would be in Ianto’s CD collection. “You’re a man out of your time Ianto Jones,” she told him fondly.

“Don’t I know it.”

“Which way?” she asked as they came to the roundabout.

“Straight over,” Ianto instructed. “You think this really is one of our mosquito friends? Or just someone exaggerating?”

“Sounds like it could be,” Gwen mused. “What exactly do Environmental Consultants do, anyway?”

“Take backhanders from construction companies so they can build cheaply on flood plains.”

Gwen shook her head. “You’re a cynic, you know that?”

“It gets me through the day.”

Ianto rested his arm along the window ledge and Gwen stole a glance across at him. He really was an old man in a young man’s body, from the cynicism right down to the impeccable suits and outdated ideas of chivalry that were sort of sweet but also incongruous in a man of only twenty-four. God knew Torchwood made you old before your time, but Ianto wasn’t old at all. And there were times when he let them see that - unguarded moments of youthful exuberance - but mostly he kept it all buttoned up inside his suit. She sometimes wondered if that was for Jack’s sake; if Ianto felt that acting his age would just remind Jack how much older he was than everyone around him.

“We should go out,” she suggested suddenly. “No Jack, no Rhys, just you and me, being young.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow. “Young?”

“Yes,” Gwen said. “Young. You are, remember?”

“When you say ‘go out’,” Ianto began dubiously. “What exactly do you mean?”

“We could try that new club in town?” Gwen suggested. “Nero?”

“Ok, yeah.” Ianto swallowed uncomfortably and looked as though Gwen had just asked him to parade naked through the city centre. “But I’m not dancing.”

“What?” Gwen flicked on the indicator and took the turning for St Mellons. “You have to dance.”

“I don’t dance,” Ianto assured her firmly.

“I’ve seen you dance,” she reminded him. “At my wedding.”

“That’s difference.” Gwen could see the tint of a blush on his cheeks. “Slow dancing’s easy. You just shuffle your feet and sway.”

“You must dance,” Gwen insisted. “Everyone does.”

“Only when I’m very drunk.”

“Then we’ll have to get you very drunk.”

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“Jack can deal with it.”

“What if it’s the end of the world?”

“Then we’ll be blissfully drunk and ignorant.”

Ianto huffed out a laugh. “Your logic is persuasive.”

“Of course it is.” Gwen inadvertently put the SUV into second instead of fourth and the engine snarled in protest. “Shit.” Ianto didn’t say a word about women drivers and for that Gwen was grateful. “Normally I love second gear,” she said when she had rammed the gear stick into fourth.

“Ok...”

“Yeah, you know, second gear's a total party animal.’”

Ianto was looking at her like she was something that had just dropped through the Rift. “You assign personalities to gears?”

Gwen shrugged, a little embarrassed now. “Yeah, it’s just a thing. Don’t you have a thing?”

“Yes Gwen,” Ianto confirmed dryly. “I have a thing.”

They looked at each and burst out laughing. That was starting to happen more often these days and it felt good. There had been stages over the last three months. Stages of uncontrollable tears; mostly hers - though she had caught Jack with quiet tears on occasions - but never Ianto. Yet he sometimes disappeared and returned with bloodshot eyes. After the tears, there was the silence filled only with work. Then, when the raw pain passed, there was the period where they would start to smile, or joke, or even laugh, and then catch themselves, feeling guilty for it, which opened up the wounds again, like picking off a scab before it was ready. Maybe now they were ready to laugh without feeling guilty.

One night the previous week, when they’d been joking around at the Hub and Jack was off doing something, somewhere, she’d asked Ianto if he thought Tosh and Owen would mind them enjoying themselves. ‘That’s what they always say, isn’t it?’ she’d said. ‘They wouldn’t want you to be miserable.’ Ianto had agreed that Tosh would want them to remember the good times. ‘But Owen would say, “Why the fuck are you lot smiling when I’m dead, you bastards?!”’ he’d decided. They’d laughed at that, and then felt guilty, and Gwen had ended up crying on Ianto’s shoulder. Ianto had hugged her and quietly apologised before driving her home in the pouring rain. There had been something about the rain that night.

The offices of EnviroConsult were modern and the business park was quiet with neat lawns and hedges. Gwen parked the SUV in the orderly staff car park, in a space marked for visitors, and they went in. Unlike the temperature outside, the office was air conditioned cold and goosebumps prickled on Gwen's bare arms. A sour-faced woman sat behind the reception desk, glaring at them irritably. Gwen still attempted a cheery smile as she and Ianto approached the desk, carrying bug spray and butterfly nets.

“Hi,” she began. “Someone called about a giant mosquito?”

The receptionist stared back at her as though it was the most ordinary statement she’d ever heard. She pushed a book across to them. “Sign in there please.”

Gwen exchanged an amused look with Ianto. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “If you could just point us in the right direction?”

“All visitors are required to sign in,” the receptionist told them stonily. Gwen raised her eyebrows but picked up the pen, signing herself in with a false name. She passed the pen to Ianto who did the same. The receptionist grabbed her phone with a heavy sigh and dialled a number. “The people are here about the mosquito thing,” she informed the person on the other line. She hung up and gestured to a row of plush seats along one wall. “Mr Evans’ll be down in a bit,” she told them. “Take a seat.”

“Um, look...” Gwen wasn’t really sure how to put this. “I think this is a little more urgent than that.”

The receptionist stared back with disinterest. “That’s not my problem.” Putting an end to any further interaction, she turned back to her computer screen.

Gwen perched herself in one of the seats, twisting her head to read the cover of the CEE magazine on the low glass coffee table. Ianto remained standing, sliding his PDA out of his pocket and checking the readings. After a few minutes, a man in a cheap charcoal suit emerged from the security door beside the reception desk. He approached them and Gwen stood up.

“Jason Evans,” he introduced himself, holding out a hand. “Head of Surface Water Planning. You’re here about the mosquito?” He was red in the face and seemed out of breath.

“Yes,” Gwen told him as she shook his hand.

“It’s this way.” Evans directed them towards the door. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a development,” he explained as they negotiated several carpeted corridors. He stopped in front of a door with a sign identifying it as the copy room and, below it, an A4 sheet of paper with block capitals printed on it reading ‘DO NOT ENTER’. “It was in here,” Evans told them. “We’d got it contained, but uh, someone opened the door.” He pushed open the door and they found a young woman, probably barely out of her teens - if that - leaning against a photocopier, her eyes red-rimmed.

“I’m so sorry Mr Evans,” she said, stepping forward. “I’m really sorry.”

Evans ignored her. “As you can see, it’s gone.” He sighed. “We were only in on a Saturday because we’ve got this bloody project to finish for the council.” Gwen hadn’t even realised it was a Saturday. Torchwood didn’t really do weekends.

Ianto waved his PDA around and squinted at the screen. “I’m picking up traces.”

“I only came in to do some photocopying,” the girl said miserably.

Gwen smiled sympathetically at her and rubbed her shoulder. “It’s ok,” she told her. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Mr Evans,” Ianto said abruptly. “If you could get all your staff in one location, at this end of the building.” He pointed back over his shoulder. “We’ll take it from here.” He gave a cursory glance to the girl. “Unfortunately this is going to be a little harder now.” Evans nodded in assent and guided the girl out of the room.

“You could have been a little more sympathetic,” Gwen remarked as they left the copy room and headed down the corridor. Several members of staff passed them, giving them terrified stares as they hurried on their way to the other end of the office. “She was only a temp.”

“So?” Ianto shrugged. “I was a temp once. Did she not see the giant ‘do not enter’ sign on the door?”

“And I suppose you were a perfect temp?”

“Of course.” He smiled into his PDA. “I was an exceptional temp.”

Gwen could imagine that he would have been. She’d gone straight from college into the force so had thankfully never had to do any temping. She could never have seen herself at an office job, spending all day at a desk. She liked to be up and about and on her feet, getting stuck in, not fannying around with paperwork. Ianto had his head down, concentrating on following the trail on his PDA, his butterfly net tucked neatly under his arm.

“In here.” He pushed open a door and they walked into an empty room, rows of empty desks, abandoned by their occupants. PCs hummed and the occasional phone trilled but there was no one to answer them. An upright fan in the corner ruffled papers on the desks and birdsong drifted in through the open windows. Gwen followed Ianto down the centre of the room. He looked up from his screen briefly and smirked. “Jack would love this.”

Gwen thought about asking why but decided against it. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. “I was thinking,” she began, as she followed Ianto out through a set of double doors at the end of the room. “Did you want to finish going through, you know, if we get a moment.”

Ianto glanced across, his features shifting uncomfortably. “We probably should.”

“Yeah.”

They hadn’t told Jack they were doing it. He probably hadn’t even thought about it needing to be done, but whenever they had spare time, Gwen and Ianto had been going round to Tosh and Owen’s flats, packing up their belongings, trying to preserve all that it was healthy to. Owen’s flat was virtually bare anyway and they guessed he had cleared it out himself after his first death. They did it mostly in silence, only speaking to ask advice on what do with a certain book or photo or pair of shoes. Some things they kept — small keepsakes, and Ianto took a couple of things Jack might like — some they took to charity shops, some they sent to their families and the rest they packed into boxes to go to the storage garage down by the docks. It was painful but necessary, even if Gwen did find herself sobbing over a collection of birthday cards in Japanese.

They eventually managed to corner the mosquito in the staff canteen. After chasing it around for several minutes, they finally managed to contain it with a combination of Raid, butterfly nets and Gwen squashing the head under her shoe. She was panting heavily but Ianto didn’t even appear to have broken a sweat, despite the fact that he was wearing more layers. She tried not to think about the fact that the bug she had just killed had been human. It wasn’t anymore, of that they were certain. And Claire was fairly certain that there was no way to reverse the process once a full transformation had taken place. Or at least that’s what she was going to investigate, once they took the mosquito back. So far she’d only had abandoned skins to work on. This body was the next piece in the puzzle to try and save Neil.

Whilst Ianto manhandled the mosquito back to the SUV, Gwen cheerfully told the canteen staff to open the windows until the bug spray dissipated and then informed Mr Evans that his staff could go back to work. She fended off curious enquiries with a genetic mutant/medical experiment story and by the time she joined Ianto in the car, she was feeling distinctly sticky and uncomfortable. She noticed that he had got into the passenger seat without asking.

“Mind if I drop by my place to change on the way back?” she asked as she fastened her seatbelt and backed out of the space.

“Not at all,” Ianto assured her.

-*-

Rhys frowned as he rotated the DIY book that he had borrowed from the library and cursed as a splodge of tile mortar slid off the trowel in his right hand and landed in the centre of the glossy page. He hastily tried to scrape the mortar off but only succeeded in leaving a smear of it across the page. The book made it look so easy and he’d bought all the right stuff, but his first row of tiles at the bottom of the shower were wonky and slipping all over the place. Maybe he ought to swallow his pride and get someone in, but that wasn’t the way Rhys Williams operated and he’d told Gwen it would be a breeze - no trouble. He sank down on the toilet seat with a sigh and balanced the book on the edge of the bath. He was hot and sweaty and itchy and starting to wonder about the safety of tiling naked.

He had just roused himself to give the tiling another go, when he heard the front door open. A few moments later, Gwen appeared in the bathroom.

“What are you doing home?” she asked, as if it wasn’t obvious why he was on his hands and knees with a cement board in one hand and a trowel in the other.

“I told you this morning love,” he reminded her. “I took the afternoon off to get the tiling done, remember?”

“Oh right.”

Gwen disappeared into the bedroom. She probably hadn’t remembered. Sometimes Rhys wondered if she listened to anything he said these days, unless it involved aliens.

“What are you doing home anyway?” he shouted, as yet another tile slipped down off the wall.

“Came home to change,” came the reply. “Got all sweaty, chasing this...thing.”

“It’s too bloody hot to work,” Rhys agreed. “I’m sweating buckets. And I got this really itchy bite. Some bugger must have got me last night.”

Gwen was pulling a clean top when she reappeared in the doorway. “What?”

“Bitten,” Rhys said absentmindedly, pointing to an angry red lump on his neck.

“Oh my God.” Gwen grabbed his head, twisted it towards the light and inspected the bite.

Rhys hadn’t expected quite such a dramatic reaction and the way Gwen was holding his head was actually rather painful. “Calm down Gwen,” he said, his voice strained because of the unnatural angle of his throat. “I’m always getting bitten.”

“We are going to the Hub,” Gwen said, letting go of his head. “Right now.” She tossed aside his tools and dragged him to his feet.

“What?” Rhys was bewildered. “Why?”

“Come on Rhys!”

He couldn’t help but think Gwen was being a little melodramatic but he was used to her odd behaviour, so he obediently followed her out of the flat and down to the big flashy 4x4 they drove around. Gwen bundled him into the backseat and he nodded a cursory greeting to Ianto, who he didn’t know well, but had had many phone calls from in the weeks after Tosh and Owen’s deaths, quietly suggesting that Gwen might need to be taken home. Gwen leapt into the driver’s seat, turned the key in the ignition and floored the SUV, engine roaring as she drove like crazy back to the Hub.


	19. Chapter 19

Gwen and Rhys sat side by side on the edge of the autopsy table as Claire pushed up his sleeve and tightened the cuff around his bicep. Gwen took Rhys’ free hand between both of hers and held on tight. Biting her lip in concentration, Claire began to draw the blood from a vein in the crook of his elbow. Rhys let go of Gwen’s hand to hold the ball of cotton wool over the needle hole, where a blob of scarlet blood was welling. Nobody spoke as Claire ran Rhys’ blood through the scanner. There was nothing to say. There was no use in reassuring and no use in preparing for the worse. They could only wait.

The scanner bleeped. Match found.

“It’s the same virus,” Claire confirmed quietly.

“No.” Gwen wanted to scream the word but it came out as quiet croak.

“What...” Rhys swallowed. “What happens now?”

“We put you into a coma,” Gwen told him in a hollow voice. “It pauses the progress of the virus whilst Claire works on a cure.”

“But you’ll find a cure?” he asked, more hopeful than anything.

Claire tried to look him in the eye but couldn’t. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly.

“Right.” Rhys turned this over in his mind. “So I might never wake up?”

“No.”

“Got no choice though, have I?”

“No.” Gwen answered this time.

“Might never see you again.”

“No.”

Rhys looked up at Claire. “Will it hurt? Putting me in a coma?”

“Have you ever had an operation?” she asked.

“Yeah. Tonsils when I was twelve.”

“It’s like that,” she said. “Anaesthetic. Putting you to sleep.”

“Best get to it then.”

Down in the medical bay, before Claire could start the dosage, Gwen grabbed Rhys and kissed him, long and deep, trying to remember every last taste of him. She pulled back and rested their foreheads together, hands cupping his cheeks. Rhys placed a hand either side of her head.

“You will see me again Rhys Williams,” Gwen told him forcefully. “I promise.”

“I believe in you,” Rhys assured her. “See you on the other side.”

He gave her one of his trademark, lopsided grins and kissed her again. Then he lay back on the bed and Gwen held tightly to his hand as he slipped under, tears streaming down her face.

-*-

The fish and chip shop was empty when Ianto entered, save a scrawny man in overalls mopping the floor. It was nine p.m. which should have been prime fish and chip buying time for a Saturday. The city was dead, despite assurances from the authorities that they were not in the midst of a plague, nor was a malaria, yellow fever or any other disease the tabloids could think of, epidemic about to break out. And whilst people weren’t yet decided on a mass exodus from Cardiff, they were choosing to stay in their houses and batten down the hatches. Bad times for local businesses; bad times for Torchwood. If only the insurance companies knew about the Rift, they could make a killing. The man looked up at Ianto hopefully and Ianto suspected he was about to make his night.

“Evening,” the man greeted him, shoving his mop back into the bucket and nudging it to one side with his foot. He wiped his hands on the back of his jeans and went back round behind the counter. “What can I get you?”

“Hi.” Ianto gave him a pleasant smile and took a look through the hot glass at the food languishing on the trays beyond, lit in chip-shop orange. “Is this everything?”

The man scratched his chin. “Well, no, I can do you anything off the menu,” he offered. “If you want to wait.”

Ianto took a look back out at the street, at the thinning evening light, and shrugged. “I can wait.”

He placed his order and perched on the low windowsill whilst he waited, watching as the man, who was of indeterminate age, despite the grey hair at his temples, shovelled chips into the fryer and battered fish, whistling as he did so.

When the orders were ready and Ianto had instructed the man on the exact right combinations of salt and vinegar (for Jack and Claire), salt only (for Gwen), vinegar only (for Jimmy) and plain (for him), he paid in cash, noting that he needed to visit a cash point some time soon, got a receipt to claim back the expenses and picked up a handful of wooden chip forks. They’d be eating at the Hub where there was cutlery but somehow it never felt right to eat fish and chips with plates and cutlery.

There was a stiff but warm breeze blowing in from the sea and it ruffled Ianto’s hair and set the carrier bags in his hands fluttering. It was a welcome relief from the blazing heat as he headed back across the Plass to the tourist office. His heart sank as a familiar figure stepped out from one of the pillars. Ianto observed how whatever Arthur wore hung well on him, even an impossibly tight black shirt, worn with black jeans and brown pointed-toe shoes. The heels clipped smartly on the paving slabs as he made his way over towards Ianto. Ianto considered sprinting in the opposite direction but Arthur was fit and had been a soldier and though he knew he was fast, Ianto couldn’t be certain that he could outrun him. Plus, he was carrying fish and chips and there wasn’t really anywhere to run to. Instead, he stayed where he was and waited for Arthur to reach him.

Arthur stopped a foot away and stood with his hands on his hips, staring straight at Ianto without speaking. Ianto stared back for as long as he could manage but he’d never been much good at prolonged eye contact. He blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

Arthur smiled an unnervingly smug smile. “You said you’d keep me updated on the case,” he said. “I haven’t heard anything from you.”

“There haven’t been any developments,” Ianto told him quickly.

Arthur snorted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Ianto changed his course and began to walk towards the water tower.

Arthur fell into the step beside him. “I just want to know what’s going on.”

“I thought I told you to stay away from Torchwood,” Ianto growled, starting to lose his patience.

He was caught completely off guard when Arthur grabbed his shoulder, spun him round and kissed him.

-*-

Reclining in his chair, Jack narrowed his eyes as he watched the CCTV feed from the Plass. He hadn’t actually intended to spy on Ianto. He’d just been hungry and wondering whether Ianto was on his way back with the fish and chips. Instead, he found himself watching one Detective Inspector Robinson, who Ianto had been to retcon last night, greet Ianto as though he recollected perfectly who he was. And now he was kissing him.

“Jack!” Jimmy poked his head around Jack’s office door and he looked away from the screen. Jimmy’s eyes were shining with the enthusiasm of a kid let loose in a sweet shop. “You have to see this.”

-*-

As Arthur forced moist lips against his, Ianto became aware that the other man’s breath was strongly scented with mint. He wouldn’t put it past Arthur to have used breath freshener in preparation. He gathered his wandering thoughts, kept his mouth firmly closed and pushed Arthur away, an action made more difficult by the carrier bags in his hands. He had manoeuvred himself into the correct position and as he shoved a surprised Arthur away, he stepped backwards onto the invisible lift. He activated the lift via his Bluetooth and as the paving stone sank down into the ground, the last thing he saw was Arthur gaping in shock and confusion, trying to work out where the hell Ianto had gone to.

He saw Arthur’s expensive shoes disappear and looked down at the Hub below him. There was no one in the workstation area. He guessed that Claire would be in the autopsy bay, Jack and Jimmy in the hothouse and Gwen at Rhys’ bedside. As the lift reached the ground, he stepped off it.

“Grub’s up!” he shouted as he made his way up to the boardroom.

It wasn’t long before Claire and Jimmy scampered into the room and Ianto started to dish out the orders. He passed the sausage and chips to Claire and the cheeseburger and chips to Jimmy. Eventually Jack trudged into the room, followed by a gloomy-looking Gwen. She slumped down into a seat and Ianto pushed her chicken and mushroom pie with chips across the table to her. He tried to share a look with Jack but Jack seemed to be avoiding his gaze. He put the large cod and chips down in front of him and then set down the bag of onion rings and polystyrene tub of mushy peas. Jack looked at them and finally looked up at Ianto.

“Looks like you picked yourself up some extras,” he commented snidely.

“Um, they’re for you,” Ianto said, confused. “You usually like them.”

Jack said nothing more but unwrapped his bundle and began to stab at his chips with the wooden fork. Ianto quietly took his place to Jack’s right and chewed awkwardly on a chicken nugget. He wondered what had got into Jack. He had seemed fine an hour ago when he’d left. Perhaps Jack and Gwen had had an argument or Claire or Jimmy had done something wrong. He watched them. Claire was shovelling her food in enthusiastically and Jimmy was reclining calmly in his seat as he bit into his burger. Neither looked like they’d be on the receiving end of Jack Harkness’ temper.

Gwen was leaning her head on her fist and miserably prodding at her food but not eating. Jack ate his cod as if the battered piece of fish was responsible for his bad mood. He was dipping the onion rings into the mushy peas and attacking them with the same animosity so Ianto guessed they weren’t completely unwelcome. How could he have angered Jack when he wasn’t even around? He tasted a faint trace of mint on his lip and guiltily looked down at the table. He had long ago decided that Jack whatever psychic powers Jack might possess, mind-reading was not one of them since he never seemed to know what Ianto was thinking. There was no other way he could know that Ianto had messed up retconning Arthur.

He put Jack’s irritability down to his usual fluctuating moods coupled with stress about the current situation and concentrated on his dinner. The meal passed in awkward silence and Jack stood up and left the room as soon as he had finished eating. Gwen didn’t seem to have the inclination or energy to ask Ianto what was wrong, which she almost definitely would these days. Or maybe she hadn’t noticed. Either way, it revealed just how worried she was about Rhys. If Jimmy or Claire had picked up on the atmosphere, they tactfully kept quiet.

“I can’t eat this,” Gwen said eventually, her voice quiet and weary. She pushed away the greasy paper and left the room before Ianto could even swallow his mouthful and offer some lame platitude.

Claire looked expectantly between Jimmy and Ianto. They both waved their hands and she dragged Gwen’s barely-touched meal across and began to wolf it down. Jimmy polished off his burger, licked his fingers and balled up the paper.

“Cheers Ianto,” he said. “Better get back to it.”

He stood up and left the room. A few minutes later, Claire had finished off both hers and Gwen’s meals. She politely thanked Ianto and disappeared. He leant back in his seat and surveyed the remains of their dinner. He took a deep breath, slowly scraped back his chair, stood up and began to clear it away.


	20. Chapter 20

Jimmy gave Jack a quick glance and a smile when he walked into the hothouse before gluing his eye back to the microscope in front of him. Jack perched himself on one of the desks and watched as Jimmy moved between microscope and computer, his face set with intense concentration. The room was silent save the low hum of the computers and the clickety-click of Jimmy’s fingernails against his water glass.

“Found anything useful?” Jack asked.

“Maybe,” Jimmy replied absently.

Jack smiled, remembering the vague, absent answers he’d got from Tosh when she’d been working on a new piece of tech. He was surprised that thinking about that didn’t hurt more and was unsure if that was a good thing or not. He decided to change the topic to distract himself.

“So, where are you from?” he tried.

“Nottingham,” Jimmy replied, pausing to chew on the end of a pencil and contemplate the petri dish of Skyrone crap in front of him. Jack was pleased to see he was wearing gloves.

“Originally?”

Jimmy looked across at him, amused. “I’m guessing you mean where are my grandparents from?”

Jack looked a little sheepish. “Yeah.” He had obviously been living here so long he’d started to acquire the parochial mindset.

“They came over from Thailand after the war,” Jimmy told him. “My father’s parents opened a Thai restaurant when they got here. My Dad was a sous chef, my Mum was a waitress. Now they run their own place. My younger brother helps out in the kitchen when he’s sober enough.”

“So you’re the odd one out?”

“You could say.” Jimmy gave a wry laugh. “Thon failed most of his GCSEs.”

Jack laughed with him. “What’s your PhD on?”

“The, uh, decline in the bee population,” Jimmy said as he went back to studying the microscope.

“And your conclusion is..?”

“Commercial farming,” he replied instantly. “In a nutshell.” He grinned at Jack. “That’s three years of research.”

“You don’t think they might just be aliens, returning to their home planet then?” Jack phrased it like he might be joking.

“I might do now.” Jimmy gestured around him and grinned again.

“So, bees for three years, huh?” Jack said. “Intense.”

“Not really.” Jimmy shrugged and turned back to the computer. “I love bees. My ex said I loved bees more than her. Apparently it’s an ‘either/or’ situation.” He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture, still with his back to Jack. “I guess I don’t get women.”

“When did you break up?”

“Two months ago.” Jimmy sighed. “Her name's Ingrid. I still think about her all the time.”

“Oh, well.” Jack looked down at his hands clasped in his lap. “Plenty more fish in the sea.” The words sounded lame and jokey and hugely inadequate, even to him.

Jimmy turned around with an expression of mild embarrassment and apology. “Oh, I wasn’t...” He pulled a face. “Sorry. I’m not into guys.”

“Oh, no, God, I’m not…” Jack laughed because this was unexpected. Getting knocked back was unusual, but for once it hadn’t been a come on. “I wasn’t making a move,” he finally clarified, collecting himself. “Not that you’re not attractive, because you are, and I’m sure you’re a nice guy, I’m just not looking right now.”

“Oh right.” Jimmy breathed a sigh of relief.

Jack pulled a face. "Best not tell Ianto about this little misunderstanding."

"Ianto?" Jimmy seemed surprised.

“Yeah.” The image of Ianto kissing Arthur flashed in front of Jack's eyes and a strange emotion wormed its way into his consciousness. He quickly stood up to avoid any further questions and peered over Jimmy’s shoulder at what he was doing.

“Where are you from?” Jimmy asked.

“Cardiff,” Jack replied, throwing Jimmy’s joke back at him.

Jimmy looked up and rolled his eyes. “Originally?”

“The Boeshane Peninsula.”

“Oh.” Jimmy mulled that over. “Canada or US?”

“US.”

“Florida?”

“North Carolina.” Gwen joked that Jack picked a different state every time he was asked and one day he was going to get caught out.

“Oh. Right.” Jimmy tapped away at the keyboard. “I’ve never been to the States.”

Jack laughed. “I’ve never been to Nottingham.”

-*-

Gwen stared at Rhys' unmoving form, lying stretched out on a bed in one of Torchwood's rarely used sick bays. She didn’t want him to move. Moving would be a bad sign right now. She somehow thought that if she watched him, he’d be ok and he wouldn’t start to change into some horrible giant bug. A sort of reverse of the old ‘watched pot never boils’ saying. If she kept watching, Rhys would be fine. Gazing at her wonderful, loyal, funny husband, she realised, not for the first time, how much Rhys meant to her. She couldn’t lose him. She just couldn’t. So she did something she hadn’t done for a long time. She put her hands together, closed her eyes and prayed. She prayed, harder than she’d ever prayed before, to a God she wasn’t even sure she believed in anymore.

-*-

When Ianto went up to Jack’s office, he was scrawling his signature on the reports so violently Ianto was certain he would either tear a hole in the paper or break the nib of his fountain pen, which would be shame since it was a nice pen and Ianto had long coveted it. Jack didn’t usually bother with reports and paperwork unless he was upset, angry or seriously cajoled into it. He’d been holed up in his office for some time now. Ianto shut the door quietly behind him.

“Are you ok?” he asked gently.

“Yep,” Jack answered curtly without looking up.

“Are you sure?” Ianto was used to Jack’s moods but he thought he could detect something else in Jack’s tone.

“Yes,” Jack assured him through clenched teeth. “Fine.” He tossed a report to one side and grabbed another.

“Ok.”

Ianto started to back towards the door when Jack slammed his pen down on the desk, sighed loudly and shoved the report away from him.

“I don’t know why you make me read these damn things,” he snapped.

Ianto frowned. Jack and paperwork weren’t the greatest of friends but he had thought that, beneath the petulant grumbling and groaning, he did see the value of most of it. He sensed that’s Jack’s frustration was a thinly disguised veil for something else.

“Well, it’s so you know what’s going on,” Ianto explained tentatively.

“Really?” Jack sat back in his seat, folded his arms across his chest and eyeballed Ianto viciously.

Ianto squirmed uncomfortably. It was a look he often saw but rarely directed at him. At least, not these days. “Yeah.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what Arthur Robinson is doing walking around with his memory intact?”

Shit. Big shit. Jack knew. How? Ianto closed his eyes and slowly opened them. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you, but I couldn’t find the right moment,” he confessed contritely. “He guessed I’d drugged his drink. I thought I’d have another chance to do it soon.”

“And when might that be?” Jack asked coldly, clearly unmoved by Ianto’s apology. “You know as well as I do that the longer you leave it, the harder it gets.”

“I know,” Ianto agreed. He sank into the seat opposite Jack. “But for what it’s worth, I don’t think he’ll talk. I just haven't had another opportunity yet. He's a little wary. I don't think he's going to eat or drink anything I give him for a while.”

“Why don’t you put a retcon pill on your tongue?” Jack suggested bitterly. “He seems perfectly willing to eat that.”

Oh. Jack had seen that. That explained a lot. Ianto smiled. “Jack — are you jealous?”

“What?” Jack seemed outraged by the suggestion. “Of course not. I don't do jealously,” he added petulantly. “I just think it’s totally unprofessional.”

Ianto stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Unprofessional?” Ianto repeated, amused. “This coming from the least professional boss I’ve ever worked for.”

Jack’s features darkened and his mouth set hard. “That is not the issue,” he snapped. “There is man in the world who knows about Torchwood who shouldn’t do. I specifically asked you to deal with that problem and you failed.” He jabbed a finger in Ianto’s direction. “Now get out there and finish the job.”

He kicked his chair back, the feet scraping over the office floor, and marched out of the office. Ianto heard his boots thunder down the steps and fade away. He ran a hand over his face. He hadn’t argued with Jack for a long time. Not since John Hart and Gray, and Tosh and Owen. The way Jack had just looked at him — Ianto remembered that look well and he hated it. He’d grown so used to being on Jack’s good side, to teasing him and being teased in return, to Jack trusting him to do his job and not cock up a simple retconning, that Jack’s outburst had come as a complete shock. A nauseous misery crawled out from his stomach and crept down to every extremity.


	21. Chapter 21

As Ianto walked across the Plass to the tourist office, he spotted Claire blundering towards him, trying to catch the paper bag of her croissant which was blowing away, whilst keeping hold of her handbag and medical case. Ianto took three steps to his right, bent down and snatched the paper bag out of the air as it tumbled along the ground. He threw it into a nearby bin just as Claire caught up with him.

“Thanks,” she said, yawning. Her eyes were only half open and she didn’t look like she’d woken up yet.

“Not a problem,” Ianto assured. “Can I carry something?”

“Oh, thanks.” Claire handed him her medical case and yawned again. “Sorry.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m not really a morning person.” She looked at Ianto suspiciously. “How do you lot cope with all these late night and early mornings?”

“We’ve evolved to survive without sleep,” he told her with a wry smile. “Fuelled by caffeine and junk food.”

Claire sighed. “And yet you still look fantastic.”

Ianto laughed politely. “Only from a distance.”

Approaching the door, they saw Jimmy perched on the railings with his rucksack on, motorcycle helmet at his feet, reading a copy of the Independent. Ianto looked at the paper and made a mental note: in denial about the harsh realities of the world. Jimmy grinned when he saw them and jumped down, folding up his paper.

“Morning,” Ianto and Claire greeted him politely.

“Morning.” Jimmy stretched his arms above his head. “Went to a club last night,” he told them. “Wanted to blow off some steam. I’ve got the hangover from hell.”

“You seem remarkably chirpy for it,” Claire remarked, a touch bitterly.

“I’m probably still drunk,” he joked.

Ianto was reminded of Owen, who had often turned up drunk, sobered up during the morning and developed a hangover by mid-afternoon. He unlocked the door and let them in.   
“Gwen has a great treatment for people who turn up to work drunk,” he told Jimmy politely, recalling her throwing a glass of water in Owen’s face during Jack’s absence; although that probably had less to do with him turning up drunk and more to do with his derogatory comments about women.

“Oh, I’ll be ok,” Jimmy said. “Three pints of water, straight down, and I’ll be fine. Works like magic — I’ve been doing it since I was eighteen.”

“When you get to my age,” Claire grumbled. “Less than eight hours sleep a night is enough to make you feel like something’s died in your mouth.”

Ianto smiled as he listened to them but when they got down into the Hub, the banter was over — it was time to face the day. He ran through the day’s problems in his mind. Jack still pissed off with him? Check. Rhys still in a coma? Check. Gwen still keeping vigil at his bedside? Check. Unidentifiable plague of insects still terrorising Cardiff? Check. Right then. Ianto blew out his cheeks and headed for the coffee machine.

-*-

Jack would have preferred to take Gwen along but she was refusing to leave Rhys. He wasn’t even sure why he was so mad at Ianto, he only knew that he didn’t want to be around him at the moment. Or rather, he did, but without the argument hanging over their heads. Ianto was so efficient and reliable that, when Jack realised Arthur had not been retconned as instructed, a small part of him had wondered whether Ianto had deliberately not bothered wiping the policeman's memory. A little flattery from the handsome detective, he'd thought, and clearly even Ianto was capable of forgetting himself. The small part had then blossomed into a large, nagging worry that Ianto had slept with Arthur Robinson behind his back. And when Ianto had teased him for being jealous, he'd been so alarmed at his own unsettling paranoia that he'd taken it out on the one person he knew he could truly trust.

He could, of course, apologise to Ianto or even ask him bluntly for the truth but they were neither of them much good at talking. Ianto sat in the passenger seat staring intently at his PDA in silence and for that Jack was grateful. He’d give anything to be joking and flirting with him but they couldn’t because they’d had an argument, and Jack didn’t know how to get round that obstacle. So he stayed silent too, kept his hands firmly on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead as they drove out to Llanrumney.

Jack swung the SUV into the driveway of the High School, grateful that it was a Sunday and there were no kids around. He hated it when kids got involved. A man in blue overalls and a dirty white t-shirt marched over to the SUV. Jack stepped out of the car to greet him.

“I called the police,” the man said. “Are you the police?”

“Sort of,” Jack said. “Are you the caretaker?”

“Yeah.” The caretaker looked at Ianto suspiciously, who was collecting equipment from the boot, but replied to Jack. “I was here doing the windows you see. Easier to do ‘em when the kids aren’t around. Thought it was some of them playing silly buggers to start with.”

“Where is it now?”

“In the sports hall.” The caretaker pointed down between two buildings. “This way.”

Jack strode after him without looking back to see if Ianto was following. He had little doubt that Ianto would find his way to the gym and appear at the right moment with all the right equipment because he was Ianto and that was what he did. He couldn’t ask for a more dedicated and efficient employee. The caretaker led them to the empty sports hall. Sunlight streamed in through the high windows, falling in bright patches on the vinyl floor that was painted with a series of brightly-coloured lines, marking out a multitude of sports pitches. The caretaker pointed to a shape huddled down in the far corner, underneath the cricket nets that had been pinned back against the wall.

“It’s down there.” The caretaker’s voice echoed in the high-ceilinged hall.

“Thanks.”

Jack became aware that Ianto had appeared at his left shoulder as he made his way cautiously towards the creature. The caretaker hung back. When Jack saw what it was, he instantly drew his gun and levelled it at the giant insect. Ianto did likewise.

“Put down your weapons,” Jack shouted, his voice bouncing eerily off the bare walls. “There’s no way out.”

Having said that, Jack became very aware of the fire exit to the creature’s left. It didn’t move however, but let out a whimpering sigh and curled further in on itself. Jack frowned, but kept his gun level.

“Do you recognise it?” Ianto asked softly.

“It’s a Viperox,” Jack replied without taking his eyes off it. “Last time they were on Earth it was 1958. Roswell, New Mexico.”

“The spaceship crash?”

“Not the famous one.” Jack approached the Viperox and it became apparent that the insect was dying. Its blue-green thorax was fading to a pale shade, its limbs and antennae were limp and it could barely keep its eyes open. It let out another rasping breath. “The Doctor had something to do with it,” Jack continued quietly. “By the time I’d caught a flight over there, he was gone.” He finally stood over the Viperox and pointed the Webley straight at its head. “Did you come alone?”

The Viperox opened its eyes and looked up at him. They were a ghostly pale yellow. “There was a light,” it gasped. “It burned. Then I was here.”

“Did you come alone?” Jack repeated stonily. “Where’s the rest of your army?”

“I am alone,” the Viperox repeated in the same weak voice. “We have no army anymore.”

Jack suddenly realised that this Viperox must be from the future. The peace-loving species that had learnt from its mistakes and would go on to reach out diplomatic ties across the universe and spark a wave of forgiveness and harmony that would last nearly two hundred years. The Golden Age of Friendship. A distant memory by the time he was growing up in beleaguered Boeshane. He lowered his gun and motioned for Ianto to do the same as he stepped forward and knelt beside the insect.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I witnessed your species’ last visit to this planet.”

The Viperox coughed; a pitiful splutter. “The ambassadors are coming,” it croaked. “To apologise.”

“Not for a while yet.” Jack remembered learning about the important diplomatic event in school. He took hold of the creature’s enlarged collarbone and pulled it up into a sitting position, leaning against his arm. “You’re hurt,” he said. “But it’s ok, we can take you somewhere to treat you.”

“It’s too late,” the Viperox hissed. “I’m dying.”

“No.” Jack shook his head. Not today. No one was going to die today.

The Viperox let out a last shuddering breath and went limp in his arms. “No!” Jack shook the creature violently. “Don’t you dare die on me!” But the Viperox remained stubbornly dead. “No.” Jack became aware of a hand resting gently on his arm and looked up to meet Ianto’s eyes, staring at him with confused sympathy. Jack shrugged him off and got to his feet. “Why does everything die on me?” he muttered, staring down at the inanimate insect, who was nothing to him, and remembering holding Tosh’s dying body in his arms: so small, so warm, so alive, until it wasn’t.

Ianto obviously didn’t know what to say to comfort him and instead silently helped Jack carry the body of the nameless Viperox back to the SUV. Then Ianto disappeared, probably to mop up any fallout from the incident. Jack just climbed into the driver’s seat of the SUV and sat staring blankly out of the windscreen. He didn’t even care that it was approaching forty inside the car and he was still wearing his coat. He didn’t feel the sweat pricking all over him. Oh Tosh, he thought, how I let you down. I thought I was saving you, bringing you to Torchwood, but in the end, I just led you to your death. Like everyone else around me.

A few minutes later, Ianto opened the passenger door and climbed in. He looked across at Jack worriedly but didn’t mention the fact that he had turned bright red and was sweating heavily in the heat. “I told the caretaker it was a mental patient in fancy dress,” he explained as he shut the door. “I’ll circulate the story on the social networking sites, just in case he blabs.”

“Right.”

Ianto waited a moment. He looked at Jack expectantly. “Shall we go?”

Jack blinked slowly. “Yeah.” He turned the key in the ignition, swung the SUV round and headed out of the school grounds. When Ianto turned on the air conditioning, Jack wanted to yell that it was too cold and he wanted to be hot but he didn’t because he couldn’t explain why.


	22. Chapter 22

Jack barely spoke a word to Ianto on the drive back to the Hub and Ianto wasn’t sure if it was because he was upset over the death of the Viperox, upset over Tosh and Owen and every other person that had and would die on him or purely pissed off over the Arthur-shaped argument they’d had the night before. He knew that Jack was prone to sulking and he knew that Jack was prone to clamming up and he knew that constant questioning would only serve to push him further away. So he’d wait, until Jack decided to talk or, more likely, just switched back to his upbeat persona, and then they would carry on as before without really addressing anything. For now, that would have to suffice.

Right now, Jack was pacing back and forth along the upper terrace of Mermaid Quay, bellowing into his mobile at a volume that didn’t sit well with top secret organisation. No doubt another call from UNIT. As Ianto walked along the decking and fished in his pocket for the key to the tourist office door, he heard someone shout his name.

“Ianto!”

He didn’t recognise the voice to start with and turned towards it, puzzled. He found himself staring into two large, blank reflective eyes on a yellow and black head. Antennae waving, mandibles gnashing, it hummed towards him at high speed, propelled by a pair of giant wings. In the split second it took him to react, Ianto felt someone - or something - barrel into his ribs and send him flying over the railings into surprisingly warm water. A sudden rush of water burst up his nostrils and slammed into his sinuses. Underwater, he heard two muffled gunshots and a distant splash before he kicked for the surface, bursting into the air with a gasp.

“Here — give me your hand.”

It was Arthur, just pushing himself to his knees and dusting off the front of his tailored shirt. Ianto blinked the saltwater out of his eyes and took Arthur’s proffered hand. Although he had been in the water less than a minute, he was soaked through to the skin. His suit clung to his body uncomfortably and hung heavily from his frame as Arthur hauled him back onto dry land. Ianto sat on the hard ground for a moment, running a hand through his wet hair and massaging his nose. His throat burned with the sting of saltwater.

He squinted up at Arthur. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Arthur sat back on his haunches and looked out at the water. “What the hell was that?”

Ianto opened his mouth to reply when Jack came dashing down from the upper level, reholstering his Webley as he went. Barging Arthur to one side, he crouched down beside Ianto and put a warm hand on his wet knee.

“You ok?”

Ianto gave him an amused smile. “I’m wet, but fine.”

“Good.” Jack squeezed his knee and stood up, offering Ianto a hand and pulling him to his feet.

Ianto wrinkled his nose and looked out at the Bay. “What was that?”

“A Vespiform,” Jack explained, looking out into the water for signs of the body. “Not fun.”

“Did you get it?” Ianto asked.

“Yep,” Jack replied, in the tone of someone who never missed.

The three men stood on the quayside and looked out to the shape floating in the water, fifty metres from the shore. Ianto, standing between Jack and Arthur, looked from one to the other and then shrugged.

“Guess I’ll go and get it then.”

Jack looked apologetic but he couldn't argue. “Would you?”

Ianto shrugged again. “Makes sense.” He toed off his shoes and rolled off his wet socks, grimacing at the seawater splattering onto the paving stones when he rung them out. Tucking them into his shoes, he then removed his jacket and tie and handed them to Jack. Utterly crushed, he took out his wallet and phone from his pockets and handed them over as well. Slipping under the railings, he dived back into the water, which seemed warmer now, and set out at a fast for crawl for the object in the distance.

He tried not to think about water quality as he swam but made a conscious effort to keep his mouth out of the murky water, ignoring that fact that he had probably already swallowed enough to give him diarrhoea for the next month. As a strong swimmer, it didn’t take long for him to reach the shape. He approached cautiously and was startled by the realisation that this was not a giant wasp but a naked human body, floating face down in the water.

The shock caused Ianto to stop treading water for a moment and he briefly floundered before dragging himself afloat again. He tentatively reached out and rolled the corpse over in the water. The body was that of a pale, overweight middle-aged man, his features warped into an expression of fear and anguish. The top of the skull had been blown off by a shot to the back of his head and another charred bullet hole pierced his back, just above his right shoulder blade, and exited via a raggedy flap of skin and flesh under his armpit. Blood leaked from the wounds and streamed off into the water, spreading out in a blossoming crimson pool. A cloud passed over the sun at that moment and Ianto shuddered violently. He’d seen enough dead bodies in the last few years but taking a swim with one was the stuff of nightmares. Swallowing down the bile that was rising in his throat, he gritted his teeth and took hold of the corpse in the lifesaving grip he’d learnt at school. Ironic that the only time he needed to use it was on someone long past saving.

Despite the buoyancy of the saltwater, the body was heavy and Ianto was breathing heavily by the time he’d managed to drag it back to the Quay. Thankfully, Cardiff’s insect invasion was keeping the tourists away since otherwise the sight of a man in a suit swimming in the Bay with a naked corpse on a sunny Sunday afternoon would have drawn more of a crowd.

Arthur gazed in horror as Ianto pushed himself out of the water, grabbed the body under its armpits and dragged it out onto the decking.

“What the fuck?” Arthur stared down at the balding man, with his wispy grey chest hair and stumpy pale cock peeking out from under the flabby rolls of his stomach. A human man and definitely not a giant wasp. He rounded on Jack. “What the fuck?” he repeated, pointing flabbergasted at the corpse.

Jack ignored him and poked at the corpse with the toe of his boot. “He reverted back,” he concluded. “Guess the shot must have triggered it.”

Arthur made an indignant choking noise in the back of his throat. “I could have you arrested for murder.”

“Oh ok, try that,” Jack drawled back sarcastically. “That.” He pointed at the corpse. “Is an alien and it was attacking Ianto.”

“That’s a man,” Arthur snapped. “A giant fucking wasp was attacking Ianto. Who, I might add, could have died if it wasn’t for me.”

Ianto looked up at them in bewilderment. “He has ears you know,” he pointed out dryly.

But neither Arthur nor Jack was paying him any attention. Jack was squaring up to Arthur, using his height for dominance. Arthur was bristling.

“You just shot a man,” he yelled at Jack. “And you wave your Torchwood credentials around and just expect me to walk away. But I’m not like all those other saps on the force; I don’t just do as I’m told so you can’t fob me off with your cheesy grin Captain — I want some answers!”

“You won’t get any answers from me,” Jack snarled, dropping Ianto’s bundled belongings as he shoved his face into Arthur’s. “You’d do better to stay the hell away from us. Haven’t you had enough warnings?”

“Most people would be thanking me for saving their _colleague_.” Arthur gave the word a very different meaning.

“I had it covered,” Jack growled.

Ianto rolled his eyes and got to his feet. He wordlessly stepped between the two men and turned to face Jack, wrapping his arms tightly around him. Arthur took a step back, unsure quite what was going on. Ianto said nothing but kissed Jack soundly before resting his chin on Jack’s shoulder. After a few seconds, Jack sighed heavily and hugged him back.

“I know,” he sighed. There was a pause. “But you’re soaking wet and you smell of seaweed.”

Ianto pulled away and nodded. “And this suit’s ruined.” He bent down and gathered up his clothes, hanging the limp tie around his neck and sliding his arms into the horribly cold wet jacket. “We’d better get this into the Hub.”

“Yep.” Jack bent down and took hold of the corpse under its arms. The shattered skull lolled awkwardly to one side, spilling watery blood onto the cuff of Jack’s coat, which Ianto knew would need cleaning again, especially once the damp patch he’d left on it dried and left a tidemark.

Arthur scratched the back of his neck and looked between them. “What about me?” he asked eventually.

Jack looked at him quizzically. “What about you?”

Arthur put his hands on his hips and glared at Jack. “Don’t I get my ticket in now?”

“Nope, sorry.” Jack hefted the body into a more comfortable position. “Need to know only. You want to keep your memories, stay away from Torchwood.”

Arthur gritted his teeth and jutted his angular jaw. “You’ve got some fucking nerve Harkness.”

“I know.” Jack nodded to the corpse and looked at Ianto pointedly. “Come on.”

Ianto put his sodden wallet and phone into his pockets. He gave Arthur a tight, apologetic smile. “Thanks.”

Arthur turned away and leaned heavily on the railing. “Whatever.”

Ianto shoved his feet into his shoes, picked up the legs of the corpse and squelched after Jack into the Hub.

-*-

Ianto had spent a disconcertingly large amount of time walking around the Hub in bare feet. Of course, usually the rest of him was bare as well, which was perhaps why it felt so strange now, as he walked across the hard carpet of the boardroom, having showered to get rid of the fishy smell and changed into a clean, dry suit.

“Better?” Jack asked, from where he was perched against the edge of the table.

“Better,” Ianto confirmed as he walked across to the table and picked up his wet wallet and phone.

“Your feet are naked,” Jack observed, looking down.

“Hm.” Ianto started to spread out the contents of his wallet. “I couldn’t find any socks.” He spread out two ten pound notes and started on his cards.

Jack, unable to keep his hands to himself, picked up one of the cards. “You have gym membership?” he asked teasingly.

“Yes.” Ianto snatched it back. “I might go, one day.”

Jack grinned. “I don’t think you need to get any more exercise.”

Ianto sighed as he finished spreading out his cards. “I guess my keys are somewhere at the bottom of Cardiff Bay. Do you know how much a new car key costs?”

“Well, you can get a copy of my key to your place,” Jack suggested, taking a bunch of keys out of his pocket that was so large that Ianto wondered if he had the key to every house he’d ever owned on there. He hunted through them, located Ianto’s front door key and began to worm it off the key ring.

“Thanks.” Ianto frowned and he sat himself down on the table beside Jack, bare feet dangling a few centimetres above the floor. “You know, most people wait to be asked if they want a key.”

“It’s not like that,” Jack said defensively as he handed the key over. “I just borrowed your key and had a copy made for emergencies.”

“It’s a little creepy,” Ianto decided.

“I have a key to Gwen’s too,” Jack reminded him.

“Which you asked for.”

“Well, I didn’t want to ask you, and you to think it meant something that it didn’t,” Jack explained.

“Oh right,” Ianto replied flatly, putting down the key and picking his wallet back up, concentrating a little harder than necessary on hunting through the compartments to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.

Jack put a hand on Ianto’s thigh and Ianto looked up to meet his eye. “Because that was before, we were, you know,” Jack started to explain. There was an awkward pause and neither man wanted to look away when the door to the boardroom swung open and Gwen walked in. Ianto flicked his gaze down and Jack quickly removed his hand.

Gwen looked at the money and plastic spread across the table and frowned. “What happened?” She also caught sight of Ianto’s bare feet.

“Ianto went swimming,” Jack told her. “With all his clothes on.”

“Oh right.” Gwen seemed a little vacant. “Jimmy’s looking for you Jack,” she told him. “He said he’s ready to start the Viperox autopsy.”

“Ok thanks.” He jumped down from the table and disappeared out of the door.

Ianto picked up his mobile and pushed the power button but the screen remained obstinately blank. He sighed and concluded despondently that it was probably broken, fruitlessly depressing the power button again. “I’ll have to get a new mobile,” he complained to Gwen, who was standing and staring into space.

“It’s hardly the end of the world,” she replied distantly.

“It’s annoying though,” Ianto said, opening up the back and removing the battery, which was flooded with seawater. “I’ll have to put all my contacts back.” Not that there were many these days.

“What the hell does that matter?” Gwen snapped suddenly. “Rhys is in a coma he may never wake up from!”

Ianto flushed, surprised by Gwen’s sudden outburst. He hadn’t forgotten about Rhys; of course he hadn’t, he’d just been trying to lighten her mood. “Sorry, Gwen, I didn’t…”

“It’s alright for you,” she interrupted bitterly. “Nothing’s ever going to happen to Jack.”

Before Ianto could respond, Gwen had turned tail and stormed out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her. Ianto stared after her and scruffed a hand through his damp hair. No sooner had he fixed the problem with Jack than it seemed he had a problem to fix with Gwen. Maybe it was better when he didn’t open his mouth and couldn’t offend anyone.


	23. Chapter 23

There were now three tanks with three rats in various stages of the transformation process. Previously, Claire would have said that she was against using animals as test subjects, but now she found it didn’t faze her. Saving human lives had suddenly eclipsed all her doubts. Above all else and beyond anything, she was going to save Rhys and Neil and any other unfortunate victims. Each rat was being closely monitored by the Hub’s systems, recording every detail of its transformation; every effect on every cell of its being.

In three Petri dishes, she had blood samples from Neil and Rhys, as well as Millie’s skin, where the virus was busy mutating the cells, and in three more she had samples from the other skins that Ianto had collected. Into each, using a microscopic needle, she was injecting every combination of every antiviral drug she could find in the Hub, in the hopes that something would be able to fight the virus. She was recording her results in a chart on the computer monitor. She was about halfway through the stock of drugs and so far nothing had worked. She couldn’t quite believe how many antiviral drugs were available to her — drugs that hospitals would have to pay millions for. She had simply Googled a list and presented it to Ianto, and a couple of hours later he had returned with everything on it.

On the table behind her, was the corpse of the mosquito which Gwen and Ianto had brought back with them. She was in the process of conducting an autopsy on it, as best she could, testing anything and everything she found. She could really do with Jimmy’s help as he was probably more familiar with the inner workings of insects, but for now she was making do with the internet and the Encyclopaedia of Insects that Ianto had found her in the Torchwood reference library. The publication date was 1996, but it had a useful double page spread on mosquitoes, including a glossy diagram of their internal organs. Working with that, a handful of academic articles from the net and her own knowledge of the human body, she was starting to piece together a picture of the way these things worked.

In a way, it came easily to her. Her job was investigative in nature, which was what had attracted to that career in the first place. Solving mysteries through minute attention to detail — not just mysteries but crimes. It wasn’t really considered acceptable in the business, but Claire would freely admit to anyone on the outside that she’d been inspired by Silent Witness. Amanda Burton had been her unlikely teenage pinup. She didn’t have time to watch much TV these days, but when she did, she still devoured all the murder programmes with glee. They weren’t all that true to her life, but it was fun to try and point out the plot holes. Tim usually fell asleep during them. She supposed she’d have to start watching sci-fi now. Tim would love that.

She had a headache forming, right behind her eyes. She then realised she hadn’t drunk anything but coffee that day and had probably overdosed. They didn’t seem to drink anything else here. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment before opening them again and putting her eye to microscope, refocusing on the Petri dish in front of her. The needle she was using was minute and her hand movements were blurred and shaky at such a high magnification. Ordinarily she would have a machine to do this for her, but that was something Torchwood hadn’t been able to supply. Instead, she gritted her teeth, held her hand steady and injected another cocktail of antiviral drugs into Rhys Williams’ blood sample.

-*-

Gwen perched on the edge of Rhys’ bed and picked up his left hand. She laced his big fingers between hers and slid the wedding band around his finger with her free hand. His skin was warm and slightly clammy. She looked up at his face and wished his mouth would smile just a little. His features were set so hard, as though he was angry, and she hated seeing Rhys angry because it reminded her of all the bad times, all the stupid fights they’d had. If — no, when — he recovered from this, they would never have another stupid fight; she’d make sure of it. Gwen lifted his hand to her mouth and kissed it. The red, lumpy bite sneered at her from the unnaturally pale skin of his neck.

A layer of prickly stubble covered Rhys’ cheeks and chin and crept down his neck. Gwen had never seen him with stubble before because he shaved every day. He had always refused to grow any facial hair, even for a laugh, because he said it made him look fat. There were flecks of grey in his beard and she though it made him look less fat and more haggard.

Someone cleared their throat quietly in the doorway behind her. Gwen turned around to see Ianto standing there, now wearing shoes and a sympathetic smile.

“You ok?” Ianto pushed his hands into his pockets and hovered in the doorway.

Gwen laid Rhys’ hand back down on the bed and stroked the thick blonde hair of his forearm. “I guess.” Gwen clasped her hands together in her lap. “I’m sorry about earlier,” she said. “For snapping at you.”

Ianto gave a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

She looked up at him guiltily. “I know being with Jack can’t be easy, even if he can’t die.”

“It does have its drawbacks,” Ianto admitted dryly, his eyes softly assuring Gwen that no offence had been taken.

Gwen turned back to Rhys and absentmindedly smoothed the sheet that was covering the lower half of his body. “What if they don’t find a cure?” Gwen asked, her voice wavering. “I’ll have to decide…”

She trailed off and Ianto quietly crossed the room to sit on the bed beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders. “No you won’t,” he told her firmly. “You won’t have to decide anything.”

Gwen turned and wrapped her arms around Ianto, putting her head down on his shoulder. He was warm and reassuringly alive; he smelt of some unidentifiable fabric conditioner and nondescript men's shower gel scent. “I just feel so helpless,” Gwen murmured. “There’s nothing I can do for him.”

Ianto put both arms around her, pulled her into a tighter hug and gently kissed the top of her head. “Claire’s working on it,” he reminded her.

“I have to trust Rhys’ life in the hands of a stranger.” Gwen gave a shuddering sigh. “I miss Owen.”

“Even if he would have been making insensitive jokes?” Ianto queried lightly.

“I especially miss the insensitive jokes,” Gwen said.

Ianto breathed a laugh into her hair. For a moment they sat without talking, clinging onto each other, whilst Rhys slept beside them. Gwen closed her eyes and tried to blank out everything — worrying about Rhys and missing her dead friends. It would hit her again soon, but for now, she just wanted to forget.

-*-

Jack leant both elbows on the desk to get a better view of Jimmy’s work. He knew he was invading his personal space but he didn’t care. He had never really understood the concept of personal space.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Trying to isolate this protein,” Jimmy explained. “I’ve found it in the digestive tracts of all the insects I’ve looked at. I’m trying to compare the samples - see if it’s the same thing.”

“Ah.”

Jimmy used a swab to smear a sample of the Viperox’s stomach acid onto a glass slide and inserted it into a scanner that he had programmed it to look for the protein.

“I don’t recognise it though,” Jimmy added. The scanner bleeped to indicate that the protein was present in the Viperox. “Bingo,” Jimmy announced, straightening up and putting his hands on his hips. “That’s a full house.”

Jack stood up and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What do you think it indicates?”

“No idea,” Jimmy admitted. “But it’s the only clue we’ve got so far.”

They both turned as Ianto knocked softly on the door and stepped into the room. He was carrying a clipboard and Jack noticed he’d found himself some shoes and socks now.

“Finished cross-referencing the archive reports,” he said, waving the clipboard.

Jack tilted his head and raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“I searched the archives for records on all the species we’ve encountered this week,” he explained. “And I’ve been cross-referencing them, for any similar characteristics.”

“Found anything?”

“One thing, not sure how relevant it is.” Ianto looked down at his clipboard. “They were all discovered to have the same protein in their digestive systems. Not recognised though.” He shrugged. “Just referred to as ‘unknown protein’.”

Jack looked at Jimmy. “Coincidence?”

Jimmy grinned. “I don’t believe in coincidences.” He gestured to Ianto’s clipboard. “Can I have a look?” Ianto handed over the clipboard and Jimmy scanned through his summary of the reports. “Have you got the full reports?” he asked.

“Sure.” Ianto turned to leave. “I’ll just go and fetch them.”

“Is this the results of the scan?” Jack asked, studying a nearby monitor.

“Yeah.” Jimmy ran a finger along the screen. “I’ve managed to map the amino acid sequence.”

“Hmm.” There was something very familiar about it and Jack strenuously dredged his memory banks to bring it to mind. His knowledge was extensive and eclectic and though he had always, from an early age, been good at retaining information, which had made him ideally suited to a career in the Time Agency, after two thousand years, some of those recall skills had suffered.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ianto returning with a stack of files. He dumped them on a nearby surface. “Here we are.” Jimmy joined him at the desk. “This is the file on the Vespiform,” he said, handing it over. “And this is the Skyrones, Viperox.” Jimmy began to devour the first file. “Pequins.” Ianto handed over a file on the large bluebottle Gwen had discovered in her flat. “We don’t have any of the others.”

Jack picked up the fat file on the Viperox and idly flipped through it. He’d written most of it himself. Torchwood had never personally encountered a Viperox in the past. The typed pages of the report were starting to yellow. The initials ‘CJH’ were printed next to the date on the top cover.

“Yes!” Jimmy exclaimed, waving the Vespiform file excitedly. “Same amino acid sequence.” He moved onto the next file. He read through the other four files and found the same thing. “And I found it in the earwig things and Nigel the Spider,” he confirmed.

“But you don’t recognise it?” Jack asked.

Jimmy shook his head. “But it’s similar sequence to the sweeteners they use in insecticide baits.”

“Baits!” Jack suddenly announced. “I knew I recognised it. Insecticides.” He tapped the monitor excitedly. “It’s Millein; they used it in insecticides in the fifty-first century, along with a pheromone scent and a chemical that killed the insects. Powerful stuff.”

“Hang on, hang on.” Jimmy was staring at Jack. “In the 51st century?”

Jack exchanged a guilty look with Ianto and then shrugged. “Rift in time,” he said casually, gesturing out of the window in the general direction of the Rift manipulator.

“So anyway,” Ianto interjected before Jimmy could ask any more questions. “How does this help us?”

“It doesn’t really,” Jack admitted, leaning back against one of the desks. “But there has to be a link.”

“What about Gwen’s theory?” Ianto suggested.

“Gwen’s theory?” Jack queried.

“Yes, about a source,” Ianto reminded him. “Maybe some of your 51st century insecticide dropped through the Rift, and that’s what’s attracting all the insects through? Sending out pheromone signals across the universe?”

Jack nodded slowly. “You might be right.” He turned over the theory in his mind. “That could work.”

“And it could have attracted all the houseflies to Cardiff,” Jimmy suggested.

“Exactly,” Jack agreed.

“So — we destroy the source and they stop coming through,” Ianto summed up.

“Yeah.” Jack turned to the monitor and tapped his teeth with a forefinger. “Ianto — can you take a sample and set up a Rift monitoring programme? If we’re right, it’s got to be somewhere in the city.”

“I’m on it,” Ianto told him, gathering up the files and leaving the room.

Jack blew out his cheeks and ran a hand through his hair. Now all they had to do was find a cure for a deadly virus which caused people to turn into giant mosquitoes. Simple.


	24. Chapter 24

Sitting down in front of his workstation, Ianto laced his fingers together and pushed his palms out in front of him. He yawned loudly and looked at his watch. It was nearly six p.m. and he was hungry, but that could wait. He’d ring for a takeaway when he’d finished setting up this Rift monitoring programme. Another late dinner then. He doubted that Jack would take it on himself to order anything. For that matter, he wasn’t actually sure what Jack was doing right now. But Jack was the boss and Ianto understood that some privileges had to come with taking responsibility when everything went to shit; up to, and including, the death of two of your employees. Gwen, he suspected, did not see this point quite so clearly, although maybe he was actually just making excuses for his own docile subordination to the man he adored.

He wasn’t entirely sure how to set this programme up. Tosh would have been on it instantly, fingers flying over the keyboard, pausing only to push her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Ianto wiggled the mouse and stifled another yawn. His eyes watered and he told himself it was a result of yawning and not from thinking about Tosh tucking her hair behind her ear. He rubbed his eyes dry and logged into the Rift monitoring software.

The software as it was had been set up to continually monitor and record Rift activity around Cardiff and its surrounding area, from tiny spikes, positive and negative, through to massive rips in the fabric of reality. The software spat out graphs and charts and lists of figures and statistics analysing the activity. One night two weeks ago, Ianto had locked himself away in the archives' reading room and poured over them in an attempt to better understand their equipment.

He now had at least a rudimentary understanding of the software. Jack understood too, but his involvement in statistics and reports was sporadic and only when necessary and besides, Ianto thought it prudent that another team member should understand the technical side of things. Gwen, for all the brilliant skills she possessed, was undoubtedly the most likely to throw her computer out of a window at the slightest malfunction. Ianto called up the Monitoring Wizard, one of Tosh’s handy creations, and her lovingly compiled Dummy’s Guide. She had prepared well. He could only hope that his successor would find things in such good order.

He scrolled through the Guide to Section 4.3: Monitoring the Area for Non-Rift Related Occurrences. There were screenshots of the Monitoring Wizard. Brilliant, wonderful Tosh. He heard footsteps behind and instantly assessed from their lightness and the slight scuffing along the floor that it was not Jack, whose footsteps were loud and purposeful, nor Gwen, who was just loud. Jimmy, then. He looked up and Jimmy slumped into the seat beside him, laptop tucked under his arm.

“Jack said you might need this,” he said, setting the laptop down on the desk and flipping open the screen.

Ianto arched an eyebrow. “He did, did he?”

On the screen was the amino acid sequence of the protein that Jimmy had discovered. Rather uncharitably, Ianto wondered why Jack wasn’t doing this himself since he seemed to know so much about it. Perhaps Jack was testing him. Who knew? He twisted the laptop towards him and began to type in the sequence along with a string of coded commands, as per Tosh’s instructions. His typing was slow and painful as he kept having to refer back to the instructions, flicking between the screenshots and a glossary of coding terms, in order that he didn’t make any mistakes. Further study was required, he decided, before he could type out the commands at Tosh’s speeds.

“How does it work then?” Jimmy asked, leaning forward on his elbows and peering at the screen.

“There are, um, sensors, around the city,” Ianto explained, frowning as he concentrated hard. “They monitor constantly for signs of Rift activity, but we can set them up to monitor for other stuff as well. Atmospheric changes for example. Weather patterns.”

“You monitor the weather?”

Ianto stopped typing and looked at him squarely, trying to don his most condescending face; the one he used to use on Owen when he was lecturing him about storing alien samples in the fridge. He’d give anything now to open the fridge and find a Hoix spleen sitting between the milk and last night’s leftovers. “Weather patterns can be extremely important,” Ianto told Jimmy. “The Rift and the weather are inextricably linked.”

Jimmy seemed impervious to Ianto’s patronising expression. “The Rift causes the weather?” he snorted. “That’s why it pisses down all the time?”

“No,” Ianto said, going back to his screen. “That’s just Wales.”

Jimmy lounged back in his seat. “You think the Rift’s causing the heat wave?”

Ianto gave a small shrug. “I doubt it, but you never know.”

Jimmy swung his seat idly back and forth, smiling that crooked smile of his. Jimmy was young-looking for his age — boyish - and the lopsided grin only served to add to that impression. His jeans and t-shirts were a far cry from Ianto’s suits and his hair had been painstakingly styled to make it look like he didn’t care. He was good-looking, in a youthful sort of way; better looking than Ianto himself at any rate, who knew, despite anything Jack might say, that he was at best interesting looking, and was currently looking rough. His hair, which had been receding for several years now, was in need of cutting, he was pale and had enormous black bags under his eyes and he was putting on weight. Apparently chasing aliens and vigorous nightly sex wasn’t enough to counteract the calories in the takeaways he lived off. He was also fairly certain he had a worrying amount of saturated fat swimming round his arteries. Jimmy made him feel old and haggard, which was depressing considering Ianto was a month away from his twenty-fifth birthday.

“So what exactly is Rift matter?” Jimmy asked.

Ianto held in a sigh and tried not to treat Jimmy like an irritating five-year-old asking, ‘Why? Why? Why?’ He wondered if Jack fancied Jimmy. Scratch that - he _knew_ Jack fancied Jimmy. Jack fancied everyone he ever met. “A type of energy particle,” Ianto explained.

“Like radiation?”

“A little. But not like any radiation you’d learn about in science lessons.”

“Oh.” Jimmy considered this, swinging his chair back and forth. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not in itself.” Ianto gritted his teeth, quashed his futile jealousy and ignored the fact that Jimmy was exactly the kind of smug bastard he would have avoided like the plague when he was at university. He turned to him with a falsely pleasant smile. “We need a sample of the protein, for the Rift monitor to pick up on. Like a dog with a scent.”

“Ok. You want me to fetch it?”

“If you could.”

Jimmy pushed himself out of his seat like an overeager puppy and trotted back up to the hothouse, where Ianto could still see Jack moving about. He knew from his background check that Jimmy came from a nice semi-detached house in the suburbs of Nottingham, had attended a grammar school with an excellent reputation and won a place at Cambridge with four As at A Level. Ianto couldn’t help feeling like the poor boy from the estate again around Jimmy, trying to prove himself, and the fact that Jack, who symbolised everything Ianto had escaped from, might think he was cleverer than Ianto, was grating. He thought he’d got over his desperate need to prove himself, coming here, but perhaps not.

-*-

Ianto tapped gently on Jack’s door and Jack looked up from his desk. He wasn’t doing paperwork, which was a good sign. He had his feet up on the desk as he read through Jimmy’s notes. And he looked tired. Which was strange because Jack never looked tired. Jack swung his feet down off the desk and tossed the report to one side, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey.” He smiled at Ianto. “How’s it going?”

“It’s coming along. Jimmy’s just running some codes.”

“Great.”

“He’s useful,” Ianto added. This probably wasn’t the best time to bring up recruitment, but it seemed that no time was a good time with Jack, so Ianto had to take any opportunities that arose. Plus, Ianto was trying to be honourable, suggesting Jimmy as a new team member. “He understands the tech pretty well.”

Jack nodded. “Yeah, he’s a good kid.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow. “Kid?”

Jack waved his hand obscurely. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s twenty-five Jack,” Ianto told him. “Six months older than me.”

Jack looked contrite. “Oh.” The phone on Jack’s desk shrilled out and cut off any response Ianto might have come up with. “I’m not answering that,” Jack told him as he stood up and headed for the door. “I don’t need another call from Alistair Hughes telling me I’m the biggest waste of space this side of the Severn.”

Ianto smiled as Jack disappeared from view and picked up the receiver. “Jack Harkness’ office.”

“Not only has the bastard got you working late, he’s making you take his calls as well.”

There were few people who began telephone conversations without any introduction and even if he hadn’t instantly recognised Arthur Robinson’s Received Pronunciation, Ianto could have taken a guess at the identity of the caller. “How did you get this number?”

“DCI Swanson,” Arthur revealed. Ianto could hear the sound of traffic in the background and wind whipping over the speaker. “She was only too happy to help.”

Ianto perched himself on the edge of Jack’s desk, creating a careful semi-circle for his arse amongst the clutter. “I’m beginning to wonder if we should just give up on anonymity and list ourselves in the phonebook,” he sighed.

“I’ve got something that might interest you,” Arthur continued. He obviously hadn’t called for a chat.

“What’s that?”

“Something...” Arthur paused, as though considering how to describe this. “Something that definitely ain’t human.”

“What kind of a something?” Ianto twisted his torso and frantically scrabbled on Jack’s desk for a pen. He lifted up piles of papers, blocks of post-its, elastic bands, paper clips, balled up scraps of paper, leaflets, a stapler, a hold punch, a tangled mass of electrical wire and a screwdriver but could find no sign of a pen. Perhaps that was Jack’s newest excuse for not doing paperwork.

“If I said ‘green goo’, would that sound too clichéd?”

“In this business, you’d be surprised.” Ianto finally laid his hands on a pink highlighter, which would have to suffice.

“Then you’ve got yourself a skip-full of green goo,” Arthur described.

“Where are you?”

“Wellfield Road, round the back of One-Stop.”

Ianto clumsily scribbled down the details on the back of an old expenses claim form (‘No Jack, you cannot claim tingly lube on expenses, however important you feel it is to your wellbeing’). “Listen,” he instructed. “Stay where you are and don’t let anyone near. I’ll be there in about...”

“No, you listen to me,” Arthur interrupted angrily. “You tell me what the fuck is going on, or I’ll let the fuzz in to tramp all over this. Got it?”

“Ok.” Ianto drew out the word to give himself time to think of an appropriate response. “We’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Until then, please keep everyone else away from the scene. When we get there,” he promised. “I will tell you what’s going on.” It wasn’t strictly true because Ianto would never tell him exactly what was going on, but he had bought himself some time and would be able to think up something to satisfy Arthur on the journey over.

“Fine,” Arthur spat. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

Ianto hung up and went back out into the Hub. Jack was sitting beside Jimmy, working with him on the Rift monitoring programme. Ianto descended the stairs.

“Jack,” he said. “That was Arthur on the phone.”

“Jesus, can’t that guy take a hint?” he groaned, throwing up his hands in despair and slapping them down on his thighs. “And how did he get my number?”

“Kathy Swanson,” Ianto explained. “He rang about a skip full of green goo on Wellfield Avenue.”

“Green goo?” Jack queried.

“Yeah.” Ianto grabbed Jack’s coat from the coat stand. “We should go check it out.”

"We?"

"I assumed you'd want to be my chaperone?"

Jack stood up. “How long are you going to make jokes about this?” he asked wearily as he let Ianto help him into his coat.

“As long as it’s funny,” Ianto assured him, straightening out his collar. “Let’s go.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - been on holiday!

When Jack swung the SUV round into the alley behind Wellfield Avenue, Arthur was sitting in his Lexus with the top down serenading the locals with a Sonny Rollins LP. Ianto noticed that the Lexus’ number plate read ‘AGR 3’. Jack glared across at him as he yanked on the handbrake as though somehow Ianto had become responsible for everything Arthur Robinson did. Arthur switched off his stereo and stepped out of his car to meet them.

“Hardly inconspicuous,” Jack snapped, not bothering with pleasantries.

“I could say the same about you,” Arthur retorted, running his fingers pointedly along the embossed lettering of the word Torchwood along the side of the SUV’s bonnet. Both Jack and Ianto chose to ignore his point.

“Is that the skip?” Jack asked, nodding towards a rusting yellow skip adjacent to the OneStop service entrance.

“Do you see any other skips?” Arthur replied sarcastically.

Ianto could see Jack’s jaw pulsing but remarkably he kept his temper. “Witnesses?” Jack asked through gritted teeth.

“Nuh-uh.” Arthur shook his head firmly. “You get nothing until you tell me what’s going on, as agreed with Ianto.”

“We really don’t know anything,” Ianto told him, as understandingly as he could muster. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jack glaring at him and realised they were probably going to have another fight about promising to give out classified information later. Hopefully, though, it would be at the minor spat end of the argument scale.

“How about you start by telling me what Torchwood is?” Arthur suggested irritably.

“What do you think Torchwood is?” Ianto countered. “You must have some idea. Everyone does.”

“I know you’re arrogant bastards who swan around this city like you own it and leave everyone else to clean up the shit you leave behind.”

“This reminds me of a joke,” Jack interjected, champion of the non-sequitur. “An Englishman, a Welshman and an American walk into a crime scene…”

“What’s the punch line?” Arthur asked.

Jack stared at him darkly before stalking off towards the skip. Arthur turned to Ianto with an amused sneer. “Is he always this moody?”

“Two of our friends died defending this city.” Ianto smiled, deceptively pleasant. “Witnesses?”

Arthur conceded defeat and went into police mode. He pointed to a figure huddled on the shop’s back step, covered in a liquid that seemed to be glowing green. “Our drunken tramp friend,” Arthur explained. “He fell in the skip, probably trying to sleep there, and his shouts were heard by Mr Anatoli, who lives in the flat above the shop.” Arthur pointed to a thin, sharp-featured man sucking nervously on a cigarette as he leaned into the back wall. “He called the police.”

“And you’re here because...?”

Arthur shrugged. “Just happened to be in the area.”

Ianto snorted disbelievingly.

“Ianto — check this out!”

Jack was leaning so far into the skip he was in danger of tipping into it. Ianto didn’t fancy trying to clean green goo off that coat, especially if it clung to it the way it was clinging to the homeless man’s ragged cagoule. Ianto joined Jack at the skip and peered in. Beneath the flattened cardboard boxes and in amongst the shattered masonry, was a viscous, bright green liquid.

“What is it?” Ianto asked, aware that Arthur had appeared at his right shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” Jack said. “I’m going to take a sample back to the Hub.”

“And the witnesses?” Ianto pointed out Anatoli, who was watching them with shrewd, narrowed eyes, and the homeless man, who seemed to have passed out.

Jack glanced over at them. “You can deal with the sober one,” he told Ianto. “And Arthur can take the other one.” He turned to the detective. “Hose him down, do whatever you do with drunks.”

“Do whatever we do?” Arthur echoed incredulously. “So we are cleaning up your shit?”

“We’re not the police,” Jack reminded him flatly. “And we’re certainly not social workers. We can't help him.”

“I see,” Arthur observed coldly. “I get it. So I clean him up, stick him in a cell until he sobers up and get him back out on the streets selling the Big Issue?"

“Now you're getting it," Jack agreed. "It'll be fine. No one will believe his story."

Arthur backed down. “Well he’s not going in my car like that.”

“I’ve called a cab,” Ianto told him, pocketing his mobile as he approached. “On the Torchwood tab. We’re regulars. You won’t have any problems. Or questions,” he added helpfully.

“Great.”

“Now if you don’t mind…” Jack pushed past Arthur and headed for the boot of the SUV.

“How do you know that stuff’s not dangerous?” Arthur asked, following after Jack. “He could be contaminated.”

“And yet he’s probably not.” There was a honk from the end of the alley. “That’s your ride,” Jack told him. “You’d better go.”

Arthur glared at Jack for a few seconds before manhandling the man to his feet, making sure not to get any of the green goo on his suit, and bundling him into the waiting taxi. Jack retrieved a large syringe from the boot of the SUV and went back to join Ianto at the skip.

“You could have told him we’d done a scan for bio and chemical hazards,” Ianto suggested reproachfully.

“And where would be the fun in that?” Jack grinned. “He seems pretty keen on you.”

“He’s keen on any male with a pulse,” Ianto pointed out as he focused on the readings on his PDA.

“Maybe he’s angling to join us?”

Ianto pocketed the PDA and stared at him. “Trust me,” he asserted. “If anyone’s going to be joining us, it won’t be him.” He stalked off to grab Anatoli.

Jack grinned after him. Interesting, he mused as he hoisted himself up onto the edge of the skip. He made a mental note, ‘Ianto not averse to threesomes’, and stored it away to revisit at a more appropriate moment.

-*-

As soon as Jack and Ianto had left and he had ensured that Claire and Gwen were safely ensconced in the autopsy bay, Jimmy slid into a seat at one of the workstations. He wiggled the mouse and the swirling screensaver was replaced with a pop-up message informing him that the computer was locked and in use by user ijones. He muttered in frustration and drummed his fingers on the desk as he thought about it. Guiltily, he checked over his shoulder but Gwen and Claire were still out of sight. He selected the ‘login as administrator’ option. Another pop-up box appeared. “Do you wish to override the authorisation of user ijones?” it asked. Jimmy selected ‘yes’. The PCs here were neither a Windows nor a Linux build, but a completely bespoke system which Jimmy had never experienced before. He felt a degree of admiration for whoever had designed it.

Nevertheless, there were some basic security principles which could be applied universally. He silently thanked the fact that he was the kind of teenage boy who spent hours taking apart and rebuilding his Power Mac 7100. He also offered thanks to the stacks of coding books lying around his bedroom and those long rambling 4 a.m. conversations with Gary about his Informatics PhD. It didn’t take him long to bypass the security protocols, reroute himself round and log himself in as Ianto, though it would have been quicker if he wasn’t taking such great care to press down the keys noiselessly, in case Gwen should hear him typing.

Jack had explained to him briefly about the Rift in time and space which ran through Cardiff and it had taken him some time to get his head around the truth of that fact and believe that he wasn’t part of some candid camera ‘Nerds Do the Funniest Things’ setup. He still kept expecting Gary and Milo to pop up from somewhere and tell him that it’d all been a practical joke because he once drunkenly expounded on his theory that the X-files could be real. But they hadn’t and here he was, working with aliens and people who dealt with aliens on a daily basis. And over there was a machine with wires and cogs which controlled a rift which spread out across the universe.

And on these computers was software which monitored that rift. He’d been watching Ianto very closely and begun to grasp how the software worked and could be used. He followed the links he’d seen Ianto following and called up the Rift monitoring programme. If he could truly understand how this worked, understand how it had been constructed, from the tiny building blocks upwards, then it was just possible that he might be able to find a solution to this whole mess. That or his head might explode from the sheer impossibility of the rift’s existence.

But if there was one thing Jimmy was good at besides his work, it was computers. He may have two left feet, he may have always been last to be picked for the football team and he may have been clueless when it came to understanding women, but computers were logical and predictable and this, given time, he could master.

He began to browse through the files on the network drives, hoping for something that might give him a clue as to where to start. Jimmy had a thirst for knowledge and Torchwood was an open bar to him. He checked over his shoulder again but Gwen was still concentrating on whatever it was that Claire was doing. Jimmy grinned and flexed his fingers as he opened up the programme file behind the rift monitor. He looked at the clock in the corner of the screen and wondered how long Jack and Ianto would be gone. If he could present them with something useful by the time they got back, he’d be a hero. The challenge was on.

-*-

Anatoli’s first name was Niko. He worked in the shop and had been renting the flat above for the last three months. His rent was reduced in return for him playing security guard. He had moved to Britain from Russia eighteen months ago and his English was broken but understandable. The flat was in the state you might expect for a man in his early thirties, living alone. There were piles of empty takeaway boxes and dirty plates scattered across the living room floor, a hideous rug thrown over the sagging sofa and a pile of crumpled washing in the mismatched armchair. The kitchen was full of empty cans and bottles and smeary glasses. A framed photograph of two smiling blonde girls, probably about six years old, sat on a shelf above the television.

“Take a seat Mr Anatoli,” Ianto said, gesturing to the sofa.

Niko did so. He seemed nervous. Perhaps he was worrying about being deported, but Ianto figured if he had anything to hide, he wouldn’t have called the police in the first place.

“You are police?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Ianto said disappearing into the kitchen, realising that would do nothing to settle the man’s nerves. It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. He cracked the tops off two bottles of lager, popped the retcon into one and went back into the living room. Niko looked bemused as Ianto handed him his drink. “You look like you needed a drink,” he explained pleasantly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Niko shook his head dumbly and picked at the label on his bottle. “I do nothing wrong,” he said slowly.

“I know,” Ianto agreed, leaning up against the wall and looking out of the small window which overlooked the backstreet. He could see Jack balanced precariously on the edge of the skip. “I’m not here to arrest you. I just want to know your version of the story.” In reality, Ianto couldn’t care less, but he needed an excuse to retcon the only sober witness.

Niko took a swig of lager and shrugged. “Like I tell other man - I hear shout, go out, man in skip, covered in green.” He shrugged again. “Then I call police.”

“Ok.” Ianto nodded as though he were taking it all in. “So how long has that skip been out there?” He jerked his thumb towards the window.

“Maybe three, four week.”

“Mm-hmm.” Ianto took a sip of his own lager, careful not to drink too much, because he needed to keep a clear head. He pointed to the photograph. “Are those your children?”

“Yes. Why?” Niko snapped. Ianto couldn’t really blame him for his suspicion. Strange man in a suit comes into your home, drinks your beer and starts asking questions about your children — it was probably something worth worrying about.

“Just curious,” Ianto assured him. “They’re pretty.”

“I am legal,” Niko recited the mantra for foreign workers in Britain.

“I’m sure you are,” Ianto said. “I was just asking. Sorry.”

“You are not police,” Niko decided eventually.

“No,” Ianto agreed, seeing that the Russian’s eyelids were getting heavy. “But you won’t remember this in the morning, so there we are.”

“What?”

“It was nice meeting you Niko.” Ianto strolled towards the door. Niko stared at him frightened and then looked down at his beer bottle. Ianto felt a pang of guilt at his distress, as he always did, but if he let it affect him, he wouldn’t be much good at his job. And he took comfort in the knowledge that Niko wouldn’t remember his terror tomorrow.

“Net,” Niko mumbled as he slid into sleep. He reached out and tried to scrabble for the photograph of his daughters, as though it might be his last chance to see their angelic faces. He grabbed it and lay slumped over the arm of the sofa, half sobbing. “Net.”

Ianto simply turned his back and disappeared from the flat. Out in the alley, Jack was standing with one hand on his hip and the other holding a large syringe full of the bright green liquid, contemplating the skip.

“Notice anything?” Jack asked, gesturing with the syringe without taking his eyes off the skip.

“You’re waving a very large needle in my face?”

“Oh.” Jack lowered the syringe. “Sorry. No, not that. Anything else?”

“Um...” Ianto looked around for inspiration. “No,” he came up with eventually.

“Look down,” Jack instructed.

Ianto did so and recoiled at the sight. The ground around the skip was littered with dead bugs of all descriptions. “Oh.”

“Coincidence?”

“Unlikely.”

“Exactly.” Jack turned and marched over to the SUV. Ianto followed. “I’ve got enough here to test. We should get rid of the rest.” He stowed the needle in a case and opened another.

“And how do you propose to get rid of a skip?”

Jack said nothing but re-emerged from the boot with an extremely large gun. Ianto raised a dubious eyebrow but Jack simply grinned at him as he locked and loaded it.

“Well, that’s one way I suppose,” Ianto remarked.

“You’d better stand back,” Jack warned as he marched towards the skip.

“I intended to,” Ianto assured him under his breath.

Jack placed his feet firmly apart, shouldered the gun and aimed it at the skip. A bolt of intense white heat streamed out and almost instantly vaporised the entire contents of the skip. Jack turned back to Ianto with a proud grin. Ok, so he had a point. He did look good with the big sci-fi gun but really, did he have to be so smug?

“Very impressive Jack,” Ianto told him, sarcastically clapping his hands together.

“I know.”

As Jack dissembled the gun, Ianto wrote out an official-looking form to push under the door of the shop, informing them that the contents of their skip had had to be destroyed on account of a level three biohazard. He signed it from Environmental Health and they were on their way back to the Hub.


	26. Chapter 26

Gwen sat on the bottom step of the autopsy bay, chin propped on hands, elbows on knees, watching Claire work. She knew it was probably off-putting, having her sitting here, but she didn’t really care. It was this or watching Rhys and this seemed marginally more productive.

“How’s it going?” she asked.

Claire straightened up from where she had been leaning over the workbench and stretched out her back. “Not great,” she admitted. “I’ve tried every known antiviral drug. None of them have any effect. I’m going to have to create one from scratch.”

“Is that difficult?”

“Time consuming and a little beyond my expertise.” Claire pinched the bridge of her nose. “According to the stuff I’ve read, I’d have to find the full genetic sequence of this particular virus and then create a new drug that will kill it.” Her shoulders slumped. “It could take years and it still might not work.”

Gwen felt as though someone had just dropped a stone down her throat. It sat heavy at the bottom of her stomach. “Years?”

Claire nodded. “And I’m not even a virologist.” She gestured hopelessly at the results of her experiments. “Plus, this virus didn’t originate on Earth. It might not work the same way.”

“On Earth…” Gwen repeated slowly, chewing things over in her mind. They often had illnesses which didn’t originate on Earth. Some more life-threatening than others, but Owen had always managed to improvise something. Because the diseases weren’t the only things that dropped through the Rift. “You might have something,” she suddenly declared, getting to her feet.

She went over to the shelves on which Owen had stored his notes. They were roughly arranged in six ring-binders and Gwen pulled out the first one and began to flip through it. Some of the pages were handwritten, some were typed and some were diagrams. Ianto kept saying he would sort them out and get them all typed up and ordered but he hadn’t had the time lately, they’d been stretched so thin.

Gwen remembered dealing with an alien virus on two occasions during her time at Torchwood. She also remembered Owen creating a new drug using an alien drug that had dropped through the Rift some time before she joined up. He’d been the most animated and excited she’d ever seen him when he realised he could use the drug to save a young girl’s life. She realised that the ring binders were arranged in roughly alphabetical order, so she put the first one away and pulled out the last one, flicking through until she found V for Virus.

There was nothing there. Gwen racked her brains to recall the name that Owen had given the viruses. She found one under L for Lowson-Tubili and one under F for Fflorg. She pulled out the notes and scanned through. She would be upset, reading Owen’s sarcastic comments, if she wasn’t so worried about Rhys. She found the name of the drugs amongst Owen’s scrawl and went to locate them in the store. Owen was meticulous about keeping the medications well documented and organised — he had been, above all, an exceptional doctor.

When Gwen had found the drugs, she showed them, along with the notes, to Claire. “What do you think?” she asked hopefully. “Can you use them?”

Claire took the notes from her and read through them. When she finished she didn’t say anything for a while, just looked up and stared into space, fingers drumming lightly on the open file, deep in thought. Gwen watched her carefully, chest straining from holding her breath. Eventually, Claire nodded slowly. “I think I can,” she said cautiously. “I’m going to need healthy human blood though. Unadulterated. No one on the pill, or any kind of medication, or with any kind of illness.”

Gwen gave a wry smile. “I think I know someone who has the healthiest blood on Earth,” she said.

Right on cue, the alarm sounded and Jack and Ianto walked into the Hub. Gwen shot out of the autopsy bay. Jack was carrying a lunchbox full of bright green liquid and Ianto a stack of pizza boxes, which they put down on a nearby desk as Ianto took Jack’s coat from him.

“Jack, I need you,” Gwen announced, grabbing hold of his arm and dragging him towards the autopsy bay. “Well, your blood anyway.”

“Should I be worried?” Jack asked as he obediently followed her across the Hub.

-*-

“Having fun?”

Jimmy jumped violently, hands jerking on the keyboard and his heart hammering. He turned round to find Ianto standing behind him. He had appeared silently, carrying a pizza box, but he didn’t look unduly angry.

“I was just…” Jimmy stammered. “I was just looking. I wasn’t doing anything.”

“I know.” Ianto sat down beside him and flipped up the lid of the pizza box. He swivelled it round and offered it to Jimmy. “Do you really think you could have got in that easily?”

Jimmy grabbed a slice of pizza and shrunk down irritably in his seat. Ianto had a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips and Jimmy wondered why it was that Ianto made him feel like a silly schoolboy. With his suits and sarcasm, he wondered what Jack saw in him. Ianto seemed stuffy and old and entirely too efficient to be true. Jimmy watched as Ianto produced a napkin from nowhere and tucked it into his collar before helping himself to a slice of pizza. Bloody poncy bastard.

“I was only looking at the Rift software,” Jimmy added petulantly, just as a string of mozzarella sagged between his mouth and his slice of pizza and landed on his t-shirt.

“Quite right,” Ianto agreed, smiling again. He wiped his fingers on the corner of his napkin and pulled a PDA out of his jacket pocket. “Very impressive.” He waved the PDA demonstrably. “I blocked you from being able to save any changes,” he explained. “But impressive all the same.”

“Thanks a lot,” Jimmy muttered, stuffing in the last of his pizza crust. Half an hour ago he’d been feeling pleased with himself for hacking into Torchwood’s systems, now he felt like an idiot. An idiot with a greasy cheese stain on his t-shirt.

“Don’t worry,” Ianto told him cheerfully. “I’ve been watching what you’ve been doing with interest. Found anything useful?”

“Well.” Jimmy sat up and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. “I’ve been thinking about some way we might be able to suck the insects back through the Rift.”

Ianto nodded, apparently taking him seriously. “Go on.”

Jimmy cleared his throat and tapped the computer screen. “There are positive and negative Rift fluctuations, right?”

“Right.”

“So, if we could take a positive and turn it into a negative,” he theorised. “We could somehow reverse engineer the Rift to our advantage.” He sighed with frustration, because this was the point at which he got stuck. “We’d need to take control of the Rift, so that it took only what we wanted it to take.”

Ianto had stopped chewing and was watching him closely. There was something a little scary about the level of activity going behind Ianto’s pale blue eyes. Jimmy felt as though he could almost see Ianto’s brain computing. “If we could get all the insects in the same place at the same time,” he said slowly. “It might not be impossible.”

“We’d need to know when the Rift was going to be active,” Jimmy pointed out.

“We can do that,” Ianto told him. “We’ve got a Rift predictor programme. It’s pretty accurate.” He untucked his napkin, balled it up to one side and rolled his chair closer. “Let’s have a look.”

“What are you doing?”

Jimmy and Ianto turned to see Jack approaching. His right shirt sleeve was rolled up over his bicep and he had a plaster in the crook of his elbow. Jimmy saw Ianto smile and nod towards Jack’s arm.

“Need a biscuit?” Ianto asked.

Jack looked confused. “No — why?”

“For your blood sugars,” Ianto explained fondly.

“Oh.” Jack reached out and grabbed a slice of pizza. “Nah — I’ll be right as rain soon.” He grinned as he took an enormous bite out of the slice. “Gwen and Claire think they might have a cure,” he explained through his mouthful.

“Really?” Ianto looked up at him hopefully, eyes shining. “That’s brilliant.”

“I know,” Jack agreed, stuffing in the rest of the pizza and picking up the lunchbox of green goo.

Jimmy watched as Jack set it on the desk, opened the lid and pushed two probes into it. Firing up a small monitor beside it, Jack typed in a few commands and waited. He scrutinised the screen, his face scrunched up in concentration.

“Predominant chemical compound C23H46,” he announced.

“Really?” Jimmy’s head snapped up attentively. “That’s 9-tricosene,” he told them excitedly. “Sex pheromone of the common housefly.”

“Which would be why the flies were attracted to it,” Ianto surmised.

“I know what this is,” Jack announced suddenly, and disappeared from the room.

“There was a whole skip-full of that stuff on Wellfield Road,” Ianto explained to Jimmy.

“Oh,” Jimmy recalled suddenly. “I cross-referenced Rift activity with Wellfield Road earlier,” he admitted, pulling up a minimised window. “The Rift was active there for around an hour last Wednesday.”

“An hour?” Ianto raised an amazed eyebrow. “That’s unusual.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.” Ianto leaned into the computer screen and studied the readout results. “It’s normally only a few seconds, a minute at the most. Just enough for something to pop through. It’s strange our systems didn’t pick up on it. We should get an alert about all Rift activity, no matter how small.”

“Weird,” Jimmy observed, leaning back in his seat. He looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Jack gone?”

“I’m sure we’ll find out sooner or later,” Ianto observed mildly. “Or not, as is his want.”

-*-

Ianto was going to kill him when he next came in here, but Jack could live with that. Quite literally. And in some ways, the makeup sex was worth annoying Ianto for. But right now, it was the last thing on his mind. He knew what he was looking for, he just couldn’t find it. The physical archives consisted of floor-to-ceiling shelving units, stacked with cardboard boxes of varying sizes. Nearer the door, the boxes were newer and labelled with barcodes; something Ianto had begun the previous year. He hadn’t time to do more than a few shelves.

Jack was hunting through the boxes at the back of the room, which were covered in dust and falling apart. Some items weren’t in boxes, they’d just been dumped on the shelves, or if they were too large, on the floor. Some had parcel tags with brief information on them; some of the labels had faded. Others were unlabelled. Some of the boxes were a tangle of unidentified and usually unrelated artefacts. There were several large piles against the left wall which contained tech scavenged from the wreck of Torchwood One.

When Jack was in the Time Agency, he had frequently visited Earth’s past. He brought with him fifty-first century technology, often everyday household items, which he could flog to the locals as dangerous weapons from the future. He had hidden these items all over the place, in the hopes that they could get him out of the tight spots he often found himself him.

When he had become a freelance Torchwood agent, he had used these items to his own ends again, to gain leverage with his bosses. However, when Torchwood became his own in the twenty-first century, he went round and collected up all the items he could remember the locations of and added them to the Torchwood archives, out of a newfound sense of responsibility.

One of those items he’d retrieved, buried in the Gobi Desert in 1934, retrieved in August 2000, was somewhere amongst these boxes at the back of the room. He coughed as he inhaled another lungful of dust, chucked aside a defunct Venuvian ray gun and finally laid his hands on it. Wiping a layer of grime off it, he held it up to the light. He grinned — it was still in perfect condition.

-*-

“I know what that stuff is,” Jack boomed, approaching from the direction of the archives, carrying a cylindrical shaped object and suspiciously covered in dust.

“What?” Ianto asked.

“Insecticide,” Jack told them, setting the item down on the desk. He brushed the dust off his shoulders and peered at the tube. Ianto wondered if he should point out that Jack’s hair was still full of cobwebs. “This is a fly trap, from the fifty-first century,” he told them, pulling out a small compartment from inside the tube. “Put a teaspoon of that stuff in here and you’d attract every insect within a five mile radius.” He turned the cylinder on its side and peered into it. “It’s a million times more potent than anything in this century.” He tapped the top of the tube, which looked like a speaker grill. “Sends out the pheromone scent through here.” He turned it round and showed them the hole at one end. “They try to feed on the protein in here, then it releases a poisonous gas, which kills them instantly.” Jack put the cylinder down. “Farmers used them to protect their crops. Or they will do.”

Jimmy stared at Jack incredulously. “How do you know all that?”

Ianto patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “He’s a very knowledgeable man.”

“I am indeed,” Jack agreed, grinning. “So anyway, you can imagine how powerful a whole skip-full of this stuff would be.” He nudged the lunchbox with a finger. “Must have fallen through, from a factory or something.”

“But how come the insects are all still alive?” Ianto asked.

“This is just the bait,” Jack explained. “The poison hasn’t been added yet.” He shrugged. “Just a giant vat of bait, sending out signals across the universe.”

“The Rift was active there for an hour last Wednesday,” Ianto told him. “But our systems didn’t alert us.” He twisted the screen round to show Jack.

“That’s odd.” Jack frowned. “That’s not…normal. It’s different, very low levels of energy.” He pointed to the second line on the graph. “It was active, but the levels of Rift matter were so low it didn’t register.”

“Systems need re-calibrating then,” Ianto mused.

“Guess so.”

Jimmy stood up and went over to the lunchbox. He peered into it and then studied the screen with the results of the analysis on it. “This is incredible,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “It’s got hundreds of different pheromone scents in here. And a whole load of chemicals I don’t even recognise it.”

“It’s pretty powerful,” Jack agreed.

“We’d make a killing if we marketed it,” Jimmy noted.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Jack told him firmly. “Humans won’t invent this for another two thousand years and we’re not here to make a profit.”

“I know.” Jimmy grinned at them both. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s not around now, it’d kill off all the insects and I’d have nothing to study.”

“Good man.” Jack clapped him on the back.

“We could use this stuff though,” Ianto suggested. “To get all the insects together in one place.”

Jack looked at him quizzically. “Why?”

“To send them back through the Rift,” Jimmy explained.

“And how do you propose to do that?”

Ianto wrinkled his nose and sighed. “We’re, uh...we’re still working on that.”


	27. Chapter 27

“Ok — here goes.” Claire took a deep breath, grabbed one of the infected rats and plunged the needle into the scruff of its neck. It squealed in protest as she depressed the plunger and the mix of healthy rat blood and the antiviral drug emptied into the rat’s bloodstream. “There we are,” she soothed the rodent, dropping it back into its Perspex box and switching on the sensors.

“How long will it take?” Gwen asked, leaning over, chewing the end of her nail.

“I don’t know,” Claire admitted. Her heart was racing and she felt sick. If this worked, she’d be able to save Rhys and Neil. If it didn’t, their last hope was gone. She flicked a switch and the analysis of the rat’s bioscans appeared on the wall of the autopsy bay. No change so far.

-*-

“There’s Rift activity predicted in fifteen minutes,” Jimmy announced excitedly from a workstation where he had the Rift predictor running.

“Too soon,” Jack said, frowning. He and Ianto were sitting at the adjacent workstation, working on the code that would force all the insects back through the Rift. “We won’t be ready in time.”

“Keep watching,” Ianto told him.

Jack was staring at the screen with an intensity that was almost scary if Ianto wasn’t used to it. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and began to type again, jabbing at the keyboard with four fingers and his right thumb, punching the keys as though he really hated them.

-*-

“Look!” Gwen shot up and pointed to the screen. “It’s reversing.”

Claire looked up at the screen, eyes darting rapidly from side to side as she took in the information. She grinned at Gwen. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s working.” The transformation process in the rat was reversing. The drugs and the healthy blood had worked its way around the bloodstream, latched onto the rat’s cells, and were slowly healing them.

“Oh my God.” Gwen clapped a hand over her mouth, voice choking with barely restrained tears. “It’s working.”

“Yeah.” Claire took a deep breath and attempted to steady the adrenalin flowing around her body. This was only the start.

“So we can use it on Rhys and Neil now?”

“Well, yes.” Claire bit her lip anxiously. “But you know there’s no guarantee it will work on them, don’t you?”

Gwen frowned and gestured to the rat in the tank, which was sitting up and washing itself, paws preening methodically through its fur. “It worked on the rat.”

“I know, and there’s a good chance it will work,” Claire explained, trying not to sound too patronising. “But rats and humans aren’t exactly the same. For one thing, humans have a much higher body mass.”

Gwen sagged, deflated. “So what do we do?”

Claire took a deep breath. “Well, we could try it,” she said. “I mean, it’s our only option really.”

“Ok.” Gwen nodded slowly. “Let’s do it.”

Claire returned her nod. “Who do you want to test it on?” she asked carefully. “Rhys or Neil?”

Claire watched Gwen consider this. It couldn’t be an easy choice — deciding which human being to administer a potentially lifesaving, potentially lethal injection to: your husband or a random stranger.

“Rhys,” Gwen decided eventually, her voice wavering. “We’ll test it on Rhys.”

-*-

“Bingo!” Jack smacked the return key with a flourish and turned to Ianto with one of his most infectious smiles. “I think it’ll work, with a little help.”

“How?”

“We use the bait to attract all the insects to the place where the Rift will be active,” Jack explained, already getting out his seat. “At which point we set out equipment up to ensure that anything in the immediate vicinity which has had contact with Rift matter will be sucked back through.” He mimed the action by sucking in his cheeks and wafting his hands.

“Ok.” Ianto turned this over in his mind. “What equipment would that be?”

“I need a few things from the archives,” Jack said. He grabbed a nearby pad and scribbled down a few things. “And see you if can find these things too.” He handed the list to Ianto.

Ianto looked down at it, trying to decipher Jack’s handwriting, and frowned. “It’s two thirty in the morning Jack,” he pointed out, holding up the list. “Where the hell am I supposed to find a leaf blower?”

Jack grinned at him. “Use your imagination.” He turned to disappear into the archives. “Jimmy — any luck with the Rift predictor?”

“Activity in the St David’s Centre predicted for three twenty-nine a.m.,” he revealed.

Jack shook his head. “Too enclosed. Keep looking.”

“Will do.”

Jack disappeared off into the depths of the Hub and Ianto pulled on his jacket. “I’m off to find a leaf blower,” he told Jimmy. “See if you can find a desk fan. I think there’s one in Jack’s office.”

-*-

Rhys was unchanged when they went down to him. Still lying there with the same stern expression on his face. Gwen leant down and brushed a kiss over his forehead. He had to come back to her — he had to. Losing Rhys was just not an option.

Claire was busy drawing a syringe full of the antiviral drug mixed with Jack’s blood out of vial. “I’m going to need to see some thigh,” she said as Gwen stood up. Claire seemed almost embarrassed about it, which was strange, since Gwen supposed she must see far more than a bit of thigh when she was cutting up corpses.

“Ok.” Gwen pulled down the sheets and tugged down the ill-fitting scrubs they’d dressed Rhys in. Ianto had carefully folded Rhys’ clothes and left them on the shelf under the bedside table; his shoes were neatly arranged at the end of the bed.

“How does he fight colds?” Claire asked.

“He doesn’t get them often,” Gwen admitted. “Never has man flu or anything.”

“Good. That’s really good. Ok.” Claire looked at Gwen. “Ready.”

Gwen grabbed Rhys’ hand and nodded. “Ready.”

Claire smoothed the skin of Rhys’ thigh and sunk the needle in, depressing the plunger until the antidote had all disappeared. She pulled the scrubs back down, let out a long breath and met Gwen’s eye.

“I guess we just wait now.”

-*-

It took half an hour for anything to change. Gwen had collapsed forward, her forehead resting on the bed beside Rhys’, his hand clasped against her cheek, but Claire spotted it.

“It’s taking effect,” she shouted.

Gwen’s head shot up, the imprint of the sheets red on her cheek. “What?”

“It’s taking effect,” Claire repeated breathlessly. “It’s changing his cells back.”

“Oh my God.” Gwen flung her arms spontaneously around Claire and hugged her tightly. “Thank you. Oh my God, thank you.”

“Um, you’re welcome.” Claire blushed furiously but Gwen didn’t notice.

She let go of Claire, tears of relief streaming down her face, and covered Rhys’ face in kisses.

“We’ll have to bring him out of the coma now,” Claire told her. “That way the antidote can work on his brain cells.”

“Ok.”

Claire fiddled with Rhys’ drips, injected him with something else and eventually he groggily opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Gwen’s face swimming in front of his eyes.

“Gwen?” he croaked. “Where am I? What happened?”

“You’re at the Hub, remember?” she said. “You had a bite. We had to put you in a coma.”

Rhys squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head, and then opened them again. “Am I better?”

“Yes,” Gwen said, smiling through her tears. “You’re better.”

“There’s a drug making its way through your brain cells as we speak,” Claire revealed, face hovering beside Gwen’s. Rhys vaguely recognised it from meeting her briefly the other day. Or week. He had no idea how long he’d been under. “You’ll be tired and weak and maybe a little sick over the next few days,” she continued. “But you should be fine.”

“Oh Rhys.” Gwen burst into a fresh wave of tears and buried her face into the crook of his neck.

Claire picked up the vial of antidote and backed out of the room. Now it was time to inject Neil.


	28. Chapter 28

Ianto returned to the Hub, having liberated a leaf blower from a garden shed in Penylan, to find Jack crouching on the floor, assembling a complex looking piece of machinery from a car battery, a desk fan and several bits of alien tech he didn’t recognise. He set the leaf blower down next to him.

“Ah, excellent,” Jack said. “Hand me those pliers?” He gestured to a pair on the desk above him. Ianto picked them up and handed them down. “Thanks.” Jack looked up at him curiously. “What happened to you?”

Ianto looked down despondently at his dishevelled suit. “I’ve been climbing through hedges in middle class suburbia,” he explained. “I thought my petty thieving days were over and it’s hardly the most dignified activity, stealing garden machinery.”

“All in the line of duty,” Jack assured him apologetically. He unwound a length of copper wire from a reel and clipped it off with the pliers.

There were footsteps behind them and Ianto turned to see Gwen supporting a very pale Rhys. Behind them, Claire was supporting an equally pallid Neil. Ianto stared at them in amazement.

“Are...?” He tried to formulate the right question. “Are you ok?” he asked Rhys finally.

“Not feeling my best,” Rhys admitted. “But apparently I’m going to live.”

At the sound of Rhys’ voice, Jack looked up and stared at him in a similar manner. Then he broke out into a broad grin and leapt to his feet. He strode over and engulfed both Gwen and Rhys in a giant hug.

“Rhys Williams,” he announced. “I have never been so glad to see you.” He kissed Gwen squarely on the forehead and then, when he noted Rhys’ disgruntled expression, kissed him on the forehead too. Jack looked over their heads at Neil and Claire. “Neil — good to see you back with us too,” he said. “And you,” he addressed Claire. “You deserve a medal.”

“Oh, erm…” Claire shuffled awkwardly. “A lot of it was Gwen’s idea.”

“You’re all brilliant,” Jack declared, finally letting go of Gwen and Rhys and taking a step back. He put his mouth next to Rhys’ ear and lowered his voice. “And I won’t even gloat that there’s a little bit of me in you now.” He winked and retreated back to his invention.

Rhys turned to Gwen with a horrified expression. “What?”

“Oh relax Rhys,” Gwen mock-scolded, helping him over to the sofa. “Claire just used Jack’s blood to make the antidote.”

Claire helped Neil to sit down beside Rhys. She fetched two glasses of water and set them down on the coffee table with a blister pack of tablets beside them. “Paracetamol will help,” she told the two men. “And get some rest.”

“What is that?” Gwen asked Jack, looking down at the contraption he was constructing.

“A DIY Rift manipulator,” Jack explained, standing up and dusting off his knees, admiring his handiwork. “Jimmy?”

“Cardiff Bay Yacht Club,” Jimmy called. “Three fifty one.”

Jack checked his watch. “Perfect,” he declared. “Ianto, Jimmy — help me load this stuff into the SUV. We’d better get moving.”

“I’m coming with you,” Gwen declared.

“Oh. Ok.” Jack shrugged. “I just thought you’d want to stay with Rhys.”

Gwen looked across at her exhausted husband. “I’ll bring him too.”

“We can’t leave Neil and Claire here by themselves,” Ianto reminded them.

“They can come too,” Gwen suggested.

Jack threw up his hands. “Fine. You can take your car too. Come on, we haven’t got much time.”

-*-

By three thirty, the assembled Torchwood team plus extras and honorary members were standing on the end of the jetty in the car park of the Cardiff Bay Yacht Club. The first pale streaks of dawn were glowing in the eastern sky as Jimmy sat in the SUV, keeping an eye on the Rift and Ianto and Jack set up the equipment at the predicted co-ordinates. Neil sat in the backseat of Gwen’s car and Rhys perched on a nearby stone, wrapped up in a blanket.

“They look like traffic cones,” he observed.

“They are traffic cones,” Jack confirmed.

“They were traffic cones,” Ianto corrected.

“Converted traffic cones,” Jack clarified as he wound the copper wire around the top of each cone and then led it back to the car battery which in turn was wired to a desk fan which was powering a forty-second century dimension fabricator. Attached to each cone, were the clips from two Polarity Reversing Canons that had dropped through the Rift in the eighties.

“Jimmy,” Jack called. “How long?”

“Three minutes forty,” Jimmy called back.

“Ok.”

Jack produced the insect trap, filled it with a sample from the lunchbox, placed it in the centre of the circle of cones and switched it on. It wasn’t long before the air was alive with insects, buzzing and flitting around the brightening sky. For good measure, Jack poured the rest of the bait onto the ground inside the circle of cones.

“Thirty seconds,” Jimmy yelled.

“Ok.” Jack shouldered the leaf blower. “Get ready. Stay away from the circle. Ianto?”

Ianto, with his trousers tucked into his socks, sleeves tucked into a pair of rubber gloves and a beekeeping hat covering his head, gave him a thumbs up as he crouched beside the car battery. He had already released the Skyrones from the Hub and now Gwen bundled Rhys back into her car and shut the doors. Jimmy released Nigel from his Tupperware prison and slammed the doors of the SUV shut.

Jack checked his wrist strap. “Now!”

Ianto flicked the switched on the car battery and the air within the circle suddenly fizzed, as though alive with crackling static electricity. Insects, flying and crawling, shot past Jack’s ears and tumbled into the Rift storm, blinking out of existence as they did so. Jack ran about like a mad thing with the leaf blower, forcing any stragglers towards the storm. He saw the Skyrones, ineffectually peddling with their legs as they were dragged into the Rift; a Vespiform squealed in horror and at least six giant mosquitoes tumbled through the air. Streams of insects snaked through Cardiff’s skies and disappeared into the Rift storm.

Ten minutes in later, the energy fizzled out and the sky cleared. Jack switched off the leaf blower and signalled to Ianto to turn off the car battery. The air was silent and the sea orange as the rising sun sparkled on it. Ianto slowly removed his hat and turned his face to the skies, as though he couldn’t quite believe it was over.

Eventually, the car doors opened. Gwen, Rhys, Jimmy, Claire and Neil stepped out into the silent dawn. A lone gull screeched, swooped down and flew off. Jack looked at Ianto and then looked at Gwen. He grinned.

“It’s over,” he said. “They’ve gone.”

“Yeah,” Jimmy whooped. “We did it.”

Jack, Gwen and Ianto looked at each other, smiled and nodded. “Yeah, we did it,” Jack said. “We did it.”

-*-

The Hub looked much as it had done when they’d left it the night before. Or earlier that morning. Rhys was still leaning heavily on her but Gwen was relieved to see that the colour was returning to his cheeks. Jimmy and Claire had been sent home for a much-deserved sleep. They had both been reluctant to go, but had eventually been persuaded, after Claire had performed one last check on Rhys and Neil to ensure that they really were ok. Ianto immediately disappeared when they got back, probably to start on the cleanup operation. There wasn’t a moment to be lost when it came to containing these things. They all knew that.

“You should take Rhys home,” Jack told her, turning to them. “He needs some rest and TLC. And you could probably do with some sleep too.”

“But what about..?” Gwen gestured generally around but Jack understood what she meant.

“We’ll handle it,” Jack assured her gently. “I’ll call you later, ok?”

She looked across at Rhys, who stared back pitifully from under sticky red eyelids. She relented. “Ok.” She nodded, and then looked at Neil. He was standing leaning against one of the desks, a little pale and sweaty but otherwise fine. Claire had advised them that they may experience feverish symptoms as their bodies fought the virus. She’d prescribed water, paracetamol and vitamin C. Gwen looked between Jack and Neil and realised that this would be the last time she would see him.

She tugged Rhys over and stepped towards him. “Goodbye Neil."

“Yeah, see you.” Neil smiled weakly. “Keep in touch?”

“Yeah,” Gwen nodded. “I’d like that.” She bent forward and kissed his scorching cheek. “Bye.”

She gave him one last smile before looping an arm around Rhys’ waist and escorting him out of the Hub. Neil stared after her and sighed heavily, an unconscious hand going up to touch his cheek where she’d kissed it. Jack’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he looked up to see him smiling sympathetically down at him.

“I think you need some sleep,” Jack told him.

-*-

Ianto stood in the archives with his hands in his pockets and looked around at the piles of paperwork. A glass of warm white wine was sitting beside them, exactly where he’d left it five days ago. It was six a.m. and he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. His head was thumping. He needed a coffee and then he needed to find a body in the vaults that could pass as a psychotic skin-peeling murderer, who would then be found hanging from a beam in his flat. Suicide. A nice neat murder case tied up. But to make it work, Ianto had to create an entire past and life and motive for this man. It would take hours to create enough layers to satisfy the CPS. Ianto was good at it though. He could have been a crime writer in another life.

As he left the archives and headed for the vaults, he bumped into Jack, approaching from the direction of the medical bays.

“Gwen’s gone home,” Jack told him.

“And Neil?”

“I tucked him up, read him a bedside story, gave him his retcon.”

Ianto smiled. “Want to help me fake a suicide with a body from the vaults?”

“You say the most romantic things.”

“It’s for Millie’s murderer,” Ianto explained. “And the others. The psychopathic cannibal who skins his victims.”

“You could leave it unsolved.”

Ianto shrugged. “A treat for Arthur. A thank you. Even though he won’t know why.”

“Hasn’t he had enough treats?”

Ianto didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he keyed in the code to the door beside the vaults and as they walked side by side towards the towering stack of drawers, he reached for the controls to move them up to the required level.


	29. Chapter 29

The pounding music was almost unbearable as Neil came to. Someone was shaking his shoulder. He peered blearily up at the man standing over him. He was tall, broad, shaven-headed and wearing a black bomber jacket.

“Think you’ve had enough, don’t you?” The bouncer motioned to the glass on the table in front of him. A centimetre of flat lager languished at the bottom of the glass which was decorated with a cobweb of dried froth.

“Yeah.” Neil straightened his stiff spine and rubbed the sore spot in the centre of his forehead where it had been resting on the table. He wiped a dribble of drool from the corner of his mouth.

“Come on then.” The bouncer nodded towards the door and Neil slid awkwardly to his feet. He had been sitting alone at a table in the back corner and as he stood up he recognised that he was in Wetherspoons. Hadn’t they gone to the Car-Bar? He rubbed his eyes and patted his pockets and found his wallet, phone and keys intact. There was something else there too. He took out the blister pack of tablets and stared in confusion at the handwritten label: take if feeling feverish. He pushed them back into his pocket and looked down at his stripy polo shirt, frowning. He was sure he hadn’t put this t-shirt on to go out tonight. Where the hell was his jacket and his mates and why couldn’t he remember how he’d got there? How much had he had to drink?

Neil wound his way through the throng of drinkers and pushed his way out onto the street. Checking his watch, he found that it had just gone midnight. The strange thing was, he didn’t feel drunk. He just felt like he’d been fast asleep for a very long time; the way he’d felt after coming out from under a general anaesthetic when he had his appendix out at school. There was a low level nausea in the pit of his stomach and his throat felt dry and scratchy. He wondered if he’d taken something again, though he’d vowed not to after the last time when Faizal’s mate from the Gaming Society had sold them gear that cost a bomb and did nothing but give them stomach cramps and terrible diarrhoea.

Reaching his house, he shoved his key into the lock and pushed open the front door that didn’t quite fit in its frame. The lights were all on and he made his way through to the living room. Turtle, Roddy and Faizal were sitting in a row on the sofa, playing on the Playstation, and all three turned to stare at him in unison, mouths open and eyes wide as though they were looking at a ghost. Turtle spoke first.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Neil was a little taken aback by the venom in his voice. “Wetherspoons,” he replied, going into the kitchen and fetching himself a glass of water. “Nice of you lot to just leave me there.” He gulped down the water in one - his mouth was parched - and wandered back into the living room. His housemates were still staring at him as though he was crazy.

“Leave you there?” Turtle echoed in disbelief.

“Yeah.” Neil flopped back into an armchair. “Felt like a right twat.”

“Neil, we haven’t seen you since Thursday night,” Roddy told him quietly.

“What?”

“You’ve been missing four days mate,” Faizal confirmed.

Neil frowned, wondering if this was some bizarre mind-fucking practical joke. They did play them on each other from time to time. Like the dead rat in Turtle’s wardrobe, or turning everything in Roddy’s room upside down, or leaving a gift-wrapped dildo and gay porn on Faizal’s pillow the first time he brought a girl back. “What day is it?” he asked.

“Monday,” Roddy told him.

Neil swallowed. “Last thing I remember we were getting ready to go out and watch the football,” he recalled slowly. He scrubbed his fingers over his face. “Where have I been?”

“You don’t remember the murder then?” Turtle asked.

“Murder?” Neil’s eyes widened in horror. “What murder?”

Turtle fished around under the coffee table and tossed him a copy of the South Wales Echo. ‘Barmaid Brutally Butchered’ screamed the headline, above a picture of a uniformed policeman standing guard by police incident tape across the entrance to the Car-Bar. Neil quickly scanned the article, which described how Millie Jenkins, aged 20, had been horrifically murdered in the pub garden during Wales’ World Cup Qualifying match and how there was only one witness, believed to be a student in his early twenties.

“That’s you, by the way,” Turtle told him. “The witness.”

Neil stared at the newspaper, uncomprehending. His hand strayed to finger the paracetamol in his pocket. “I don’t remember.”

“Mind you,” Roddy added in his strong Swansea accent. “You were pretty pissed, waffling on about some giant mosquito.”

“Shit.” Neil put a hand over his mouth and stared at the frozen action of the videogame.

They lapsed into silence which was broken by the chiming of the doorbell. Neil jumped violently. Roddy heaved himself to his feet and went down the hallway to answer it.

“Is Neil Maloney in?” They could hear the muffled enquiry from the living room.

“Yeah, he’s through here.”

Seconds later, a uniformed policeman entered the living room, bringing with him the scent of night air.

“Neil Maloney?” He addressed them all.

Neil pushed himself uncertainly to his feet, feeling so confused that he was close to tears. “That’s me.”

“Neil Maloney,” the policeman began, and Neil’s stomach flip-flopped inside of him. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Millie Jenkins. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention anything you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and used as evidence against you.”

This is not happening to me, Neil thought, as the policeman handcuffed him and led him out of the house and into a waiting squad car. This cannot be happening to me. I don’t even remember a murder. The last thing he saw as the police car pulled away from the curb was Turtle, Roddy and Faizal’s faces pressed up against the window of the front room, watching in shock.

-*-

Gwen pulled up beside the kerb and sat in her car for a moment, staring at the two-up-two-down semi. This was the part she hated. She had thought that Jack and Ianto got some sort of perverse pleasure out of retconning people, but she had come to realise over the last couple of months that they hated it just as much as she did. Still, it was necessary, for reasons beyond their control, and she had to step up the plate as well. She took a deep breath and got out of the car. The house was on one of those picture-book estates where each house was a clone of the one next door and the front gardens were neat postage stamps of green grass, dotted with the odd small shrub. New but inexpensive cars were parked on the short driveways. The roads were named after Welsh mountains and the wheelie bins were neatly arranged in rows. The only discrepancy was the battered old Daihatsu parked in Claire’s drive.

Gwen locked her car and approached the front door. She pushed the bell and after a few moments Claire swung the door open. Her top was covered in soap suds and she was brandishing a washing up brush in her left hand. She smiled and pushed some stray strands of hair off her face, leaving a clump of suds on her forehead.

“Hello,” she greeted her. “What are you doing here?”

Gwen shrugged and plastered on her friendliest smile. “Thought I’d drop in, see how you were.”

“Oh.” Claire seemed genuinely pleased by that. “Come in.”

She held back the door and Gwen stepped into the small hallway. Inside, the house was in chaos. Shoes were scattered across the small space and stacks of post littered the stairs. Claire shut the door behind them.

“I was just doing the washing up,” she explained unnecessarily. “It’s my day off.”

Gwen knew this because she’d hacked into her work rosta at the station. She also knew that it was Tim’s day to collect his JSA.

Claire lobbed the washing up brush into the kitchen sink from the kitchen doorway and wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. “Tea?”

“Yes please.”

“Go on through.” Claire gestured down the hallway. “Have a seat.”

Claire disappeared into the kitchen and Gwen went into the living room. It was just as cluttered as the hall, with piles of video games and DVDs, magazines and books strewn about the place. In one corner was a large plasma screen television and below it an assortment of different games consoles. Rhys would be in seventh heaven here. She cleared herself a space on the sofa and sat down. The book nearest on to her on the coffee table was entitled ‘Toxicology for Dummies’. Beside it was a Terry Pratchett novel.

“Here we are.” Claire appeared carrying two cups of tea and put them down on top of the Toxicology book. Gwen realised she was waiting for Claire to apologise for the mess, but she didn’t seem to think it necessary. “Tim’s at the Job Centre,” she explained. “But don’t worry, I haven’t told him anything.”

“He’s still not found a job then?”

“No.” Claire sighed. “He’s got an interview for a factory job tomorrow, just to help with the mortgage really.”

“That’s a shame.”

“I guess.” Claire suddenly brightened. “I mean, that’s what I used to think. That jobs and mortgages and careers were the only things that mattered. But now...” She grinned. “There’s so much out there.” She waved a hand towards the window. “There’s a bigger picture.” She shook her in amazement. “It’s just so...”

“Overwhelming?” The retcon pill in Gwen’s pocket felt like lead. She’d felt the same way after her first day.

“Sort of.” Claire considered this. “But also sort of brilliant, really.”

“I know that feeling,” Gwen agreed. She stared at the two cups of tea balanced on the book. She looked at Claire’s excited face. “Oh, that’s my phone,” she announced suddenly, pulling it from her pocket. She flipped open the screen and pretended to read a message. “Sorry, got to go.” She stood up and pulled an apologetic face. “Torchwood.”

“Of course.” Claire stood up too. 

“Sorry about the tea.” Gwen gestured to the cups.

“Don’t worry about it,” she assured her. “When Torchwood calls...”

“Exactly.” Gwen started to back towards the front door. “It was good to see you. We’ll, uh, be in touch.”

“Great.” Claire opened the front door for her. “Thanks for coming.”

“See you.”

The door shut behind Gwen and she made her way across to her car. Once inside, she started the engine and drove away without looking back.

-*-

It wasn’t hard for Ianto to find Arthur. Apparently, he didn’t do inconspicuous. His silver Lexus was parked, hood retracted, in one of the spaces along Harbour Drive, facing out towards the bay, Maynard Ferguson squealing from the speakers. He had a folded newspaper propped on the steering wheel and was scratching absentmindedly behind his ear with the chewed end of a biro. He looked up when Ianto set two cardboard cups of coffee down on his dashboard, opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside him.

“Lovely day,” Ianto remarked pleasantly. The breeze blowing in off the water was refreshingly cool.

“Isn’t it just?” Arthur straightened up in his seat, today wearing a navy polo shirt stretched tight over his biceps and a pair of orange-tinted Oakley wraparounds, and turned off the music. “Thinking of getting me one of those.” He nodded towards a pleasure-yacht that was being unmoored from a landing pontoon.

Ianto squinted against the high noon sun and watched the yacht’s crew scuttle about on deck as the engine putt-putted it away from the jetty and out into the open water. “I’m not a fan of boats.” He let his screwed up eyes wander from the boat to the land on the far side of the water and the wooden boardwalk that led to a familiar door. He leaned back against the plush leather of the Lexus’ headrest and watched the fluffy white clouds tumble across the bright blue sky.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Ianto closed his eyes and let the sun warm his cheeks. God knew he probably didn’t get enough sun, hiding away underground all the time. “Just came to say thanks.”

Arthur snorted. “Torchwood doing thanks? Next you’ll be doing condolence cards.” He waggled sarcastic hands. “Sorry your puppy got mauled by an alien.”

Ianto grinned. “You never know.”

Arthur rested a tanned forearm along the top of the driver’s door and threaded the biro between his fingers, the hexagonal plastic scattering sunlight across his torso. “Uniform arrested Neil Maloney yesterday.”

Ianto opened one eye and looked at him in surprise. “Why?”

“Because Millie Jenkins was brutally murdered — impressive cover story by the way.” Arthur smirked. “And Maloney was the last person seen with her and he disappears for two days. Some bright spark plod thought he’d get himself a promotion by putting two and two together.”

“Right.” Ianto closed his eye again.

“Strangest thing.” Ianto could hear the smug smile in Arthur’s voice, as if he thought he’d finally managed to catch him out. “Maloney can’t remember a thing about the last week.”

“No?” Ianto feigned ignorance; obviously so.

“That’s Torchwood’s handiwork I presume?”

“Presume away.”

Arthur made a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “So anyway, I told PC Brown-Nose he’d made a mistake, that Maloney had an alibi, and told him to back off my case because I had a number of leads - et cetera, et cetera.” He turned to Ianto triumphantly. “Maloney’s on his way home to Manchester for the summer as we speak, confused as hell but none the worse for wear. Your secret’s safe.”

Ianto finally opened his eyes and glanced briefly at Arthur before evasively following the progress of the yacht in the distance. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” Arthur’s brittle tone suggested he thought he deserved more than mere thanks. And maybe he did. Ianto eyed up the cups of coffee on the dashboard. Arthur’s was the one on the left and Ianto had a lot of experience of making the passing of a cup of coffee look casual and unplanned. Arthur followed his gaze. “Is one of those for me?” He nodded towards them.

“These? No.” Ianto sat forward and picked them up. “They’re cold.”

“Right.” Arthur shot him a sly, almost predatory grin. “You know, the offer of a shag’s still there, if you ever get bored of Jumping Jack Flash.”

“On a scale of one to never-gonna-happen,” Ianto began dryly, opening the passenger door. “I’d say the probability of me taking up you up on that offer is a resounding nought percent.” Holding a cup of coffee in each hand he bumped the door shut with his hip. “And it’s Bayesian,” he added.

“Huh?”

“Three down.” Ianto pointed to the half-completed crossword in Arthur’s newspaper, flashed him a cheery smile and walked away.

-*-

The corridors of the biosciences building were just as drab today as they had been last week. They were quiet too, for mid-morning. Jack passed the occasional aimless student or focused lecturer as he wound his way along the hallways and stairways. Having discovered that Jimmy was not in his office, Jack had gone down to reception and the same attractive secretary as before had told him that Mr Ramasut was currently teaching a seminar. She’d given him directions and now Jack found himself standing outside a nondescript door marked ‘356’. He peered through the glass panel at the top of the door and could see Jimmy, perched on a desk at the front of the room, gesturing enthusiastically to a projected image of a bumble bee, whilst a less-than-enthusiastic group of Masters students stared blankly at him.

Jack checked his watch. The secretary had said that Jimmy would be finished at twelve. It was twenty-to at the moment. He planned to take Jimmy out for lunch. Ordinarily it would have been a coffee, but Jimmy didn’t drink coffee and retcon tended to fizz and make water go cloudy, which was more than a little suspicious when you were trying to surreptitiously wipe someone’s memory. If they went to lunch though, Jimmy might order juice or at least some food that Jack could hide a crushed pill in when he went to the toilet.

Jack stood and watched Jimmy for a moment. He was full of enthusiasm and energy — an energy buoyed even further by the knowledge he had gained over the last few days. Jack’s heart ached suddenly for a lost innocence and his own misspent youth. He slid his hand into the pocket of his coat and felt the hard bottle of pills there. Jimmy glanced across at the door and spotted Jack. He grinned and raised a hand in greeting. Jack raised his own hand in reply. Jimmy tapped his wrist, since he didn’t wear a watch, and held up five fingers. Jack nodded and Jimmy went back to teaching the students, who were now gawping at the door to see who he was silently communicating with. The next time Jimmy looked up, Jack was gone.


End file.
